I had written about it on my college application essay, about all the things it contained—my personal history, my life, really--all housed inside that wooden box. I can’t remember why I had asked for said piece of furniture, but it was my very first piece of furniture I ever owned and it’s still my favorite piece to this day.
My mom and dad gave it to me for Christmas one year. I was teenager and had loads of diaries and journals and photos that needed a dark home where they wouldn’t be so exposed. My parents got it at an antique shop. I adore its daisies and etched fans. I adore the scratches on its wooden veneer because it has a life and a history. Its history began long before I existed, but now it contains my history. It's me in a box.
I was just thinking the other day that I need to get Bianca a cedar chest of her own, somewhere she can store all her little stories, pictures, and musical compositions. All the things that are her. Maybe I’ll make it a tradition, like getting your ears pierced at age 10. Maybe my girls will get cedar chests when they turn nine. Now, to find the perfect one. . .