“Weee!” Tightly she clutched his hand and mine, and together we lifted her over the dandelion.”

I was going through my memory box today, June 4, 2013. I pulled it down off of its shelf and placed it on the dresser in front of me. It made a gentle clicking noise as the corner edge of my wooden box connected with the stained and polished wood of the dresser. I wiped my hand over the top, the dust scrunched up and stuck to my hand. My nose wrinkled and I brushed it off quickly into the trash can before I could sneeze. After that at least it was possible to read my name again, painted in flowing letters across the top of the box: “Claudia Rose.”
I lifted off the top and set it next to the box; at the very surface was an old news paper. Lifting it out I unfolded it, November 18th 1928. The paper my mother saved on the day I was born. It was crinkled and discolored in places. I set it on top of the box lid, anxious to keep looking, I knew that it meant less to me than it must have meant to Mama.
Next there was an old pair of booties that must have been mine as an infant, an old cloth diaper, some birthday cards, and the high school yearbook from my senior year. Then came the wedding pictures and pictures of each of the kids: Zach, Carrie, and Sam. One after another I took each item out of the box and set it on the rapidly growing pile. I’d seen it all before, nothing was capturing my attention or my memory like I wanted it to.
In a little blue velvet box were pictures of Mama and Pa and the twins. Seeing the boys’ eight year old faces made me smile and laugh a little. I shook my head to myself. Michael and James were the best little brothers anyone could ever have. They were always getting into some sort of trouble with anyone they interacted with, but Mama could never stay mad at them and Pa’s threats of the belt were only ever empty. They could make anyone laugh at any time, I remembered wistfully. I placed the photograph on the pile with the rest of the stuff from the mess of things I’d collected over the years. I sighed sadly as the memories of youth faded back to the present. James had died in a car crash when he was only thirty-three. Michael, who’d never been the same after that, was now in the nursing home on 14th and Main. They’d only been born a year after me, but it felt longer. I’d always seemed so much older.
The next thing I pulled from my store of memories was a thick square of paper that had been folded a few too many times. Opening it up my heart leapt into my throat; as soon as I saw that loopy unorganized handwriting I knew exactly what it was. David Johnson was a boy I’d met in school all of those years ago. We sat next to each other in class and all year we passed notes. I’d had a little crush on him at one point. I laughed as I set it aside.
I kept sifting through my memories until there was nothing left but an old crumpled piece of paper. I started rearranging the stuff on the top of the dresser so that I could put it all back nicely. Over the last hour I’d been happy and sad, I’d both laughed and cried. So many old thoughts and memories that I’d locked away. I wondered briefly of the ratio of memories to brain cells then continued moving everything around. When everything was in order I reached into the box and pulled out that piece of paper. I turned it over, there was my handwriting; messy and hurried. I read it aloud.
“Weee!” Tightly she clutched his hand and mine, and together we lifted her over the dandelion.”

That day. We’d been walking on the sidewalk to the park down the road. It had started out as the best day, it ended as the worst. I had written down that little moment of the day because it was so perfect, I’d wanted to remember it. But that was the day of my life I never wanted to remember. As I stared at the paper it became hard to breathe and my palms were sweating. Ashley, my first daughter, was almost two.

One second she was standing next to me holding a bouquet of dandelions… the next my husband was shouting and all of those dandelions were scattered in the road.