I’m cleaning in the attic when I find it.  It’s my ‘special box,’ an old battered wooden box, covered in scratches and coated with dust.  My father made me this box when I was six.  There’s nothing special about the box itself.  It is made from scrap lumber, not even painted, and the hinges and latch are plain stainless steel.  But it was made to hold all of the things a six year old considers special treasures…all the things close to a child’s heart. Opening the box is like walking through time.  Decades flash by in seconds as I look over and remember all that is inside.

There is the picture of the girl I loved in kindergarten…now my wife. There are marbles and baseball cards and interesting rocks.  There are seashells I collected on a Hawaiian beach.  There is a small green feather from a parrot that I found on the floor at a pet store.  There are four blue ribbons from various summer swim meets.  Looking at them now, I can hear my mother cheering and feel the cool water splashing against my skin.

There is a collar and dog tags from my dog, Bear, who died the summer that I was 8.  I pull it out now and the tags jingle and I can almost hear the pleasant thumping of Bear’s big tail against the hardwood floor.  There is an ID tag from summer computer camp, and a photo of me with my favorite counselor. 

There is a small beaded wrist band that my father brought back from Africa , and a collection of wheat pennies spanning the years from 1919 to1945.  There’s movie stubs from some of my favorite movies, and the lure I used the first time I ever went fishing.  And there, at the very bottom of the box, is the gift I received from Grandma on my third birthday.  I close my eyes, and it all comes back to me. 

Grandma had come for a month-long visit from Connecticut .  She came two or three times every year, but this was the first visit that I was old enough to remember.  Because she lived so far away, she usually stayed with us for four or five weeks at a time.    

What I remember most about Grandma is that she loved to play.  For hours, when everyone else was too busy, Grandma would sit in her rocking chair and we would play imaginary games.  We would hunt black panthers in the darkest African jungles, or soar away to outer space to battle hideous aliens.  We explored the deepest oceans with our scuba gear, battling dangerous sharks and huge barracudas.  Grandma was old and couldn’t get around much, but I can still picture her sitting in her rocking chair, leaning forward eagerly and making swimming motions with her arms, or wielding an imaginary sword as she bravely battled dangerous pirates. 

One day we played ‘restaurant’ and as her waiter, I served her a special drink that I had made.  I put Dum-Dum lollipops in water, and stirred them until they were half dissolved.  When I brought it to her, she oohed and aahed and told me how delicious it was.  Then she told me that perhaps together we could start our own soda company someday.  Years later I would try the same experiment again.  The taste was perfectly dreadful.  But for one exciting childhood moment, a little boy believed that he had made an amazing discovery that would transform the soda industry as we knew it.

When we grew tired, I would crawl into Grandma’s lap. Sometimes I would tell her stories.  She always listened intently, and gasped in all the exciting places, her eyes wide, one of her hands covering her mouth. Sometimes, I would just lie in her arms while she hugged and kissed me, her old gold watch close to my cheek.  I remember how I loved to listen to that watch as it ticked, its sound as soothing as any lullaby.

The morning of my third birthday found me happy that it was my birthday, but sad because Grandma was leaving the next day.  By noon, all my presents were piled on the table.  I shook each one vigorously, trying to determine what was inside.  Then I came to a small package wrapped with red paper, without a bow, merely a tag with writing I couldn’t read.  I asked my mother what it said.  “Love, Grandma,” she told me. 

Grandma was my best friend, so of course that one excited me the most, and I thought about it all day.  When it was time to open my presents, it was the first one I reached for.  Inside the box, nestled in tissue paper, was Grandma’s own gold watch.  Small and plain, its adjustable band made it fit just right on my arm.  As I threw my arms around Grandma and hugged her tight, I heard my teenaged brother say, “A woman’s watch?  A used woman’s watch?  For a boy?  How stupid is that?”  But I didn’t mind.  This watch had gone everywhere with Grandma.  It had even lain against her skin.  It still smelled like her.  I knew in my heart that it was the perfect gift.

I once again hold the watch in my hands.  Putting it to my ear, I realize that the battery is long dead, the soothing ticking is gone.  Grandma is gone too.  She died just before my eighth birthday.  But the memories this watch holds are strong.  I think of Grandma, and the games we used to play, and I can’t help but smile again. 

My thoughts are suddenly interrupted by a cry.  Walking into the nursery, I reach into the crib and remove my tiny daughter.  She sighs as I pick her up and walk over to my Grandma’s rocking chair.  Sitting down, I begin to rock her and she falls easily back to sleep.  Thinking as I rock, I dream of one day sitting in this very chair, telling stories and playing games with my own grandchildren.  I’ll need to replace the batteries of the watch before then, so that I can someday pass it down to one of them.  And they will love it just as much as I have…I’m sure of it.