Small Parcels by Lydia Fazio Theys
Janet folded the sweater and placed it with the others on the bed. Taking the last sweater from the closet, she held it up for Amy to see. “Remember this one?”
“That goes back,” Amy said. “I can’t believe she kept it. It was so stretched out that every time she wore it, she had to roll the sleeves up until the cuffs were like little inner tubes around her wrist.”
“And look at the burn marks. Remember when she set it on fire? At the stove?”
Amy laughed. “I’d forgotten that.”
Both were silent a moment. Jane spoke first. “I just can’t believe she kept all this stuff. Should we keep some of it, you think? Just to—you know?” She squinted at the far corner of the closet. “What’s that back there?”
“Oh, I don’t know. How much do we really need to keep sweaters and old slippers?” Amy held a threadbare robe at arm’s length, its red color time-dulled everywhere but the trim. “Look at this. She wore it every Christmas morning.” She glanced at the family photos on her mother’s dresser. “You know, Janet, most of this stuff is too worn to donate to anyone. I hate to say it but I think we might as well toss it. She never could throw anything away.”
Janet backed out of the closet on her hands and knees. “Hey, look what I found back in the corner.” It was a small parcel, wrapped in brown paper. “What do you make of this?”
“No idea.” Amy rested a hand on the parcel, as if to detect fever in a small child. “But I don’t think Mom would have left something she didn’t want us to see.”
“You mean like twenty years of love letters from an old flame?”
“Like that.” Amy sat on the bed. “I say let’s take a look.” And she handed Janet the scissors to clip the string.
“I don’t believe it,” said Janet. “That’s—it’s our dress-up hat!” She held up a bedraggled flowered hat, squashed and aged, its pinks and purples faded into grays and blues.
“And look!” That blue thing. We called it the ‘lady dress.’ Oh, and the sequined purse.” Amy sat up straighter and clasped her hands in her lap. “Remember how much fun we had playing dress-up with these?”
“Look, Ame.” Janet held up a pale yellow envelope with “To Janet and Amy” written in their mother’s hand.
They exchanged looks—a shared instant of wariness—little girls called by their mother, almost certain they hadn’t done anything wrong. Amy nodded and Janet opened the envelope, reading aloud:
Dear Girls,
I wonder when you’ll be reading this. After I’m gone probably. Or maybe when one of you has your first baby I’ll decide to give it to you. I’m writing this on a beautiful Sunday afternoon. You’re off apple-picking with Daddy and I stayed home to clean up the old dress-up bin because you just don’t use that stuff anymore. Do you remember that day?
It’s hard! Somehow it’s making me face the fact that at 13 and 15, you’re truly growing up. Those lovely days when you would come shrieking down the hall in some sort of outlandish get-ups are gone. I can’t bear to part with all of it. These things are so much a part of you for me that I need to keep them around. Who knows if I’ll ever open them? I’ll just know they’re there. As you read this, I hope they remind you of how happy we all were. Those days were precious. I love you both.
Mommy
Amy handed the note to Janet, who took it and smoothed its folds. “I don’t remember that day at all,” said Amy. “And here it was so important to her.”
“Me either. I wonder why she never gave this to us when our kids were born.”
“I don’t know. Maybe the moment never seemed right. Maybe she felt embarrassed. Maybe she forgot all about it.”
“I doubt that, knowing Mom.”
Amy laughed. “True. So, do you save your kids’ things?”
“Some. Drawings mostly. Birthday cards. Report cards. You?”
“I suppose it’s silly, but I save a lot of the kids’ things. Yeah, I do.”
“This dress-up stuff really was a hoot.” Janet laughed.
“Those were fun times, weren’t they? I’m really glad Mom thought of saving this stuff.”
“Me, too. Well, what will we do now? Divide it up?”
“I guess so. Here, I’ll tear the paper in half and we can each wrap some stuff. You pick first.”
When the half dozen items were divided between them, they sat in silence, Janet’s fingers playing at the edge of the cape. “I think I’ll just add that robe of hers to the parcel. She wore it for so many years—That is, if you don’t mind.”
“No, no. That’s fine. You know, though, I think I’ll take the old white sweater. It’s so her.”
And together they wrapped their parcels, and tied the strings, memories added to memories.
Lydia Fazio Theys lives in Connecticut with her husband and a pleasing mixture of great big kids, fat cats and a wee dog. Lydia’s work has appeared in previous issues of All Things Girl, as well as in Cezanne’s Carrot, flashquake, Opium, Yankee Pot Roast, Gator Springs Gazette, Moondance (column nominated for a Pushcart), Quintessence, Somewhat, Mad Hatter’s Review, Andromeda Spaceways Inflight Magazine, Quiction, HeavyGlow and the humor anthology Just Bite Me. Her fiction has been read on KRCB public radio, printed on a coffee mug and used as inspiration for a dance piece by the Junction Dance Theater of Pittsburgh.
