The garage smelled like paint thinner and damp cardboard when we walked inside. It sat apart from the house and was connected by a breezeway with screens that banged in the wind.
My mother had loved the garage because it was practical and cluttered. There were paddleboards leaning against the wall and crates of holiday decorations.
The cedar chest was shoved behind a stack of boxes as though hiding it badly made the act less ugly. I walked straight to it and put both hands on the dry wood.
The carved border around the top was one my grandfather had done himself. The brass latch was bent as if someone had tried to force it.
“Open it,” I said to Cassandra. No one moved for a long moment.
“Why me?” she asked with a flinch. “Because if I open it and see that anything is damaged, I might say something I cannot take back,” I told her.
She stepped forward and knelt down to lift the latch. The lid opened with a familiar whisper of hinges.
Inside, the top layer looked mostly intact with folded quilts and old linens. I found the photo tin and the letters and the baby dress I had once worn.