Our Boxes

My childhood Christmas memories are filled with familiar ornaments: the ceramic tree
my mother would place ever so carefully on the kitchen table, the white angel on the top
of our tree, the Santa wreath that hung on the front door.  I would watch her take the
old, worn out boxes from the attic and unpack each newspaper wrapped item, begging her
to let me be the lucky girl who got to put each special family treasure in its designated
place.  I knew exactly where each ornament went because it was the same every year,
no matter what house we lived in, and I looked forward to transforming our home
each Christmas season.

My mother passed a lot of those ornaments on to me when Shawn and I bought our
first house 3 1/2 years ago.  The same old boxes that made their way in and out of our
attic each year now take up residence in the home my husband and I have made
for ourselves and our family.  This year, we celebrate our fourth Christmas in this house,
the house we now call home.  And as Shawn made his way out of the attic last week,
Isabelle stood at the foot of the stairs calling out, "That's the box with the snow angels in
it!" "I know where that Santa wreath goes, Mama!".  She helped me unpack each and
every box, placing our Nutcrackers on the bookshelf like we have year after year, her
little face glowing as I set up the nativity snow globe.  

I turned on some Christmas music, made blueberry muffins and tea, and we all set to
work putting the magic Christmas touch on our home.  And as I looked around at all of
the familiar ornaments and garlands and stockings, I felt the deep sense of familiarity
that makes me feel so whole.  This house, the place our family calls home, is the place
my daughters will look back on when they decorate their own homes someday.  Just as
I remember those magical childhood days with my mother and all her Christmas boxes.