Our pace took sudden awe.

When we came to visit last night you gave us your bed to sleep in because it is the firmest mattress in the house. I did not want to take it but you insisted, so eventually we conceded.

As I prepared for sleep I couldn't help but notice that Dad still uses the Avon brush you bought for us decades ago. It sits on the vanity counter. I cannot remember how long ago I threw mine away. It must have been right after we moved from the Dakotas. Yet there his stills lies, a small reminder of the night you came home and surprised us with those hard-bristled brushes. It immediately transports me to the green downstairs bathroom in our old house, where your three children gathered together each evening to brush our hair, clean our teeth, and prepare for bed.

You still hold many relics that comprise the background of things that were my childhood: the shallow pink glass dish with fish feet and a shell lid, the large ceramic bunny whose hollow body has always carried Q-Tips, the wicker clothes basket I used in my room.

Last night I was enjoying being reminded of that simpler life. I did not want the moment to end and so I went and stood in your closet long enough to see my poetry you've hung on its walls, the photos of your three children in frames. I noticed the miniature jewelry box atop your dresser and before I could stop myself I opened its small doors. The three wooden drawers are in tact and still house those olive-colored hoops in the first one. I found pins I have not seen in twenty years, ones you adorned on jean jumpers when you taught pre-K in Valley City.

Thank you for keeping the memorabilia, Mom. Perhaps you've known what you were doing all along, but in case you haven't, just know that these small pieces you've held on to are tangible memories that remind me that the past is still within us. That we are not too far gone from those long and happy days.