The wooden case still sits above my desk.
I have moved three times.
The box came with me every time.
The crooked hummingbird is inside.
So is the lantern.
The broken ruler.
The little guitar.
The wooden compass.
The house with Dad’s name burned into the side.
The hummingbird reminds me that there was once a version of me who ran through the kitchen while Dad called me Hum-Bee.
The lantern reminds me that silence isn’t always strength.
The broken ruler reminds me that numbers can describe your performance without defining your worth.
The guitar reminds me that making mistakes doesn’t mean something beautiful has ended.
The compass reminds me that leaving home is not betrayal.
The house reminds me that some people remain part of a family long after they stop walking through its rooms.
But the wooden case itself means something different.
For months, I had been afraid Ethan’s gift wouldn’t be impressive enough.
