It’s a funny thing… the disconnect between memories and reality.
Gazing upon the lunch box I used as a young girl, my heart floods with emotion as I reflect on a care-free childhood and the tender love of my mom. I recall the rhythmic and soothing squeak of the metal lunchbox rocking back and forth in its handle as my arm swung in cadence with each step while making my way to school. Anticipating what my mom had packed for lunch and ever hopeful I might discover a sandwich made from leftover meatloaf, or better yet, meatballs… with expectancy I lifted up the cheerfully painted lid, hoping to catch sight of my favorites. Awaiting me was a sandwich carefully wrapped in shiny waxed paper for safekeeping, a home-made cookie or two, and on special days a shiny apple!
Looking at my now-worn and tired lunchbox, I see only love… Love of a mom for her youngest daughter, and unpacking a nutritious lunch to see me through the day… I see not a one of its dents, dings, or numerous scratches; and yet, when I look at a photo of my beloved pink flowered lunch box, it looks old, tired, and is marred in numerous areas where the paint has worn off.
I think I will avoid looking at the photo…
