sitting on her hope
chest at age sixteen, filled with
possibilities
My father must have been full of hope for me when he made me a hope chest for my sixteenth birthday. For months he worked on it. Drawing the design. Selecting the wide tiger cherry lumber. Cutting and planing the planks. Carving the design of flowers representing my heritage: Irish shamrock, Scots thistle, English rose, Missouri sunflower. Carving the inscription on the front: Viva Carole Lee Craver. Jigsawing the drop border. Dovetailing the panels together. Attaching the brass handles. Sanding, polishing and shellacking the exterior until it was as smooth as my face. When it was finally finished, he said, "With age, cherry will turn darker, but that's part of its beauty."
It came to me empty. It was supposed to be filled with things I would need for my marriage. Slowly the empty hope chest got filled, with patchwork quilts from my grandmothers and great-grandmother, linen napkins and tablecloths from my mother, embroidered cotton pillowcases and crocheted afghans from my aunts, my own baby quilt made by the ladies of my mother's sewing circle. And they all got used for my own family of three sons, except the pink baby quilt which eventually got passed on to my granddaughter. Later, most of them found their way back into the hope chest, wrapped up with tissue paper and lavender sachets. They're still there, patiently waiting.
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