It was Jamie's second birthday and time to dismantle the crib. In its place I was struggling to erect a set of bunks. Never mechanically inclined, this chore like many others I'd faced in the year since my husband's death tested my resolve. Were there really only four bolts to keep the top bunk from falling on the bottom one? Did the metal slat fit perpendicular or diagonally across the frame? The directions always keep a crucial bit of information hidden. Finally, I stepped back to admire my handiwork. I was pleased to see the bunks stood straight and sturdy. I fitted the sheets over the mattress and smoothed down the comforter.

Now for the chest of drawers. Jamie and his brother could share the one stored in the basement. On my way downstairs I glanced through the window to see the boys still building roads in the sand pile. I called to my daughter as I passed her room and asked her to give me a hand. Sweet, compliant, Alison, she must have dreaded the sound of my footsteps coming down the hall. I had leaned on her so heavily this past year.

The basement was cool and dark. Against the back wall packing boxes and trunks were stacked. Abandoned winter boots, fishing poles, skis, and a plethora of other seldom used items remained where they had been left. The chest of drawers was wedged between shelves filled with empty canning jars and a pile of suitcases we hadn't used since our last trip to Alaska. As I moved the suitcases to one side, I smiled at the bright pea-green color, the chest had been painted years ago. I remembered clearly the summer before we were married, finding Ron in his mother's garage, proudly painting our newest acquisition. The paint though not a great color, was something his mother had had on hand. Funny how the color never bothered us over the years we had used it.

I pulled out the drawers to find items stored there too; photographs in one, baby toys in another, and winter clothing in a third. I found a cardboard box and begain emtpying the drawers. Here were the baby socks I had knitted for Alison, the pair of mukluks I'd been given in Alaska, and the warm woolen hat Ron had worn each time he ventured out in the Arctic village where we taught. I picked it up and felt the woven texture. It seemed so recently I'd seen him wear it. I buried my face in the soft folds and smelled his familiar scent.

How could it be that this hat could still be here but he no longer exist? Waves of grief welled to the surface; Intense sorrow at the loss of this man who had been more alive than any one I'd ever known, the anguish of our children being raised without the adoration and guidance of their father, the emptiness of life without his support and love. The depth of despair I felt at that moment took me by surprise. It was fresh and raw, still capable of consuming me.

Footsteps on the stairs brought me back. I could not let Alison see me like this. I slid the drawers out of the chest, and as she approached, I handed her one, keeping my face averted. She obediently took the drawer and began

carrying it down the hall. I picked up the others and followed. As she slowly climbed to the landing, I looked up. There, across the side of the drawer was something I'd never seen before; a message that somehow brought the past into the present, that gave life to a memory. In bright green paint he had written the words, l love you.