The clouds had grudgingly parted and allowed some sun to shine through the cold that had wrapped the countryside in a thick blanket of Winter gloom. Taking advantage of the respite I started cleaning out the basement, pulling out suitcases thick with dust and cat hair to air out and organize the plastic storage boxes.
I opened one full of Legos. In it a house was half-built laying on top of a jumble of bricks. Several years ago my son had worked on it for minutes, perhaps several hours and then stopped. It got put away and left undisturbed in the box. He is 15 now, learning how to drive, in love with a girl who lives on the Outer Banks and comes nearby to visit her grandparents. He has no interest in Legos and probably won’t for a decade, perhaps longer.
One day he will open the box and find the house waiting for him, exactly as he had left it when he was 11 or 12. He will see it through new eyes, and the years will fall away like so many leaves of seasons past as he lifts the house from the box and sets to work on it with a companion whose identity is a mere glimmer in my imagination.
But until then the box of Legos is secure in our basement, waiting for his return.