Forgotten Boxes

This, her heart whispered, is what I miss most about my mother.

Emotion pricked at Charity’s eyes, blurring her vision until she blinked the tears hastily away. The style of the kitchen was a bit dated with its tiled countertops and knotty pine cabinets, but she fell in love with it instantly. There were nick-knacks and mementos everywhere, a mishmash of trends and styles no doubt gathered throughout the years. Charity glimpsed everything from black and white cows to roosters, apples to sunflowers, even a telltale blue-scarfed goose shoved high upon a shelf. The scattered collection of canisters, cookie jars and overall clutter added to the homey feel of the space. But absolutely best of all, the air was permeated with the delicious aroma of home-cooked meals. One glorious sniff, and Charity swore she gained five pounds.

While Charity choked down her irrational response, Tarn called out to his mother. There was movement from the adjacent room, followed by an unseen voice. “I’ll be right there, dear. I’ll get the coffee started while you get the plates. Get the fall ones, son; the ones with the little leaves on them.”

With an indulgent smile on his face, Tarn did as his mother instructed. A formal dining room — blessedly more homey than formal — spilled into the kitchen via a wide doorway. Charity watched as the big man opened a china cabinet and took three dainty plates into his beefy hands. He cradled them with care as he turned back toward the kitchen.