Childhood Treasures

At nine years old I was pigeon-toed with matted hair and enrolled in a new school, where friends were hard to come by. I was gawky, but didn’t care. I held my head high and beamed sunshine from my face because my lunchbox was my unwavering companion. It was also my treasure chest. Every day, knock-kneed on the end of the bench, my fingers brailed the latch, anticipating the click when the vessel would unhinge and my trove was to be discovered. There was the usual bounty of colors and smells, bread so white it could stab my eyes with glints of amethyst and jasper seeping out on all sides. Carnelian sticks lined up in neat little rows, and glimmering coins sheathed in a peel back tin where behind the metallic exterior lay a milky dark goodness and yet – this was not the treasure I eagerly sought. Where was it – this coveted grail? My hand always fluttered in search (it was a common occurrence) in between the paper towel of the egg, the imprinted napkin tucked inside the ziploc bag residing with the sandwich. Where could it be hiding? Ah! This time, folded into a triangle of perfect miniaturized proportions, hidden under the layer of bulging green grapes – my note! My prize…. Every day, come rain or shine, in sickness or health, my mother or father would type, handwrite, color, collage, paint, stickerize, caricaturize, or comic clip some sentiment and bury it amidst my nourishment – from kindergarten through, well – dare I say high school?

When boxes with a latch were no longer fashionable or the mystery meat-filled days of school lunches was what I craved, I could be certain, that a note, somewhere, somehow would be mine for the day, stashed in a pocket, tucked under the leaf of a book cover – an unwavering symbol of support and confidence.

Always waiting there. Just for me.

I believe in the selflessness of parenthood.

How I wish I saved each lunchnote from my youth. A handful is all that remains. But the poetry and beauty of these gestures float within me, lightening my step, easing my heart.

My father surrendered to a brainstem stroke not long ago. My daughter will know of his legacy, his calligraphy, his near rhymes and limericks, and she’ll feel buoyed when life’s inevitable grimness weighs her down. Much like the gems that were lunchnotes, I also had jewels. Regular night-time tuck-ins, stories, back-rubs, and post-supper drives to see the city twinkle like fairy lights from afar. Daily rituals where my parents sacrificed their time and showered me with care.

I want my daughter to experience the love I felt. The magic of childhood.

My mother is a breast cancer survivor. She, is the most selfless person I know. She is the mom I wish to emulate. Every day she does for others. She knows joy. She is joy.

This, I believe.