Two Trunks

We recently received a notice that the trunk room in our building was to be renovated, and if we wanted whatever we had stored there, we needed to retrieve it--soon. So today, I made my way down, with a child assistant and a doorman, to claim our things. What exactly "our things" were, I wasn't really sure. You see, whatever we stored there has been there longer than the child assistant has been alive. We clearly haven't missed it. So what would we gain by having it, except the knowledge that we weren't abandoning some part of our past--a part that we clearly wanted enough to keep, but not enough to see regularly?
 
After some degree of struggling (very good thing the doorman was there!), we arrived upstairs with two large trunks and a bicycle, not exactly welcome additions to an already crowded apartment. But the child assistant didn't care. All she wanted was to get into those trunks and discover the treasures inside.
 
Snap, snap, and the two enormous cases were open. The treasures? My life history in t-shirts, a long obsolete video camera, and a cuckoo clock too fragile to take out of its box. There were probably a few other things, but these were the high points. So much for the buried treasure.
 
My mother has always said that storage was just a step toward giveaway. I'm not sure if all of our trunk items will go the giveaway route--now that I know that my personal history in shirts exists, sentimentality may take over, and we may have to make room for trunks full of stuff that will remain unused. I didn't miss them when they were buried in a locked basement, but now...
 
It's funny how trunks both contain our memories and make those memories disappear. And then turn our memories into just a bit of treasure for those who unearth them. Because, while the child assistant won't have much practical use for any of the items she found, those items will be a source of stories for weeks to come.
 
All because we retrieved, and opened, our two trunks.