text: When the clutter in your basement looks more like rising floodwaters, it's time to go down there and deal with it. Building an ark to escape in would only be a way of avoiding the inevitable. And, besides, God would probably want me to go out into the world and collect all the animals, two by two. No thanks. I'd rather deal with the clutter. I opened the basement door and looked down the stairs. The only clear area was the path from the bottom of the stairs to the washer and dryer. The path was walled-in by piles of clutter almost up to my hips. I sighed and made my way down the stairs. About halfway down, I spotted an old shoe-box on one of the steps. I picked it up. There were words written on the side in magic marker: Box of Memories, 1987, for Quentin Ngoro when I'm grown up. Going through the rest of the basement's clutter was going to have to wait a little longer. Upstairs in my bedroom, I sat on my bed and placed the shoe-box in my lap. After I removed its lid, I saw a small disorganized collection of old photos, baseball cards, playing cards, a small red rubber ball and a set of jacks, and an old baseball. Somehow these all belonged to me, when I was a child, but I had no memory of putting this together. Digging through the collection, I noticed a sheet of 8x11 paper, folded in half. I unfolded it and saw that it was a handwritten letter from the boy I used to be to the adult I would one day become. To the future Quentin, Today is Tuesday, July 21 st , 1987. I'm about to finish my box of memories. Once I'm done with this letter, I'll fold it in half, put it in the box, close the box, and then store it somewhere where it hopefully won't be noticed until I'm older. I didn't want a big box. I wanted something you could put in your lap and rummage through on a rainy day, remembering the boy you used to be. The baseball is one that I caught during a Baltimore Orioles game, when Reggie Jackson hit a home run into the stands where Dad and I sat. After the game, Mr. Jackson kindly autographed it.. The photos are of me at different times in my life. The earliest one is of a baby in a bassinet. I can't believe that the baby was me. How small I used to be! Another one is of when I was six. I'm sitting upright in a hospital bed, with a toy yellow bulldozer in my lap, a bandage wrapped around the top third of my head. That was after a dog bit me in the forehead and a doctor had to stitch the skin on my forehead back together again. The toy bulldozer was a get-well-soon gift. There are some other photos, too. At the bottom of the box is a book that I bought at the school library's book sale last year. The Black Cauldron by Lloyd Alexander. I didn't want to part with it, but I wanted you to have it. I hope you'll like it, too. I didn't want this letter to be as long as the ones I write each December to Santa Claus, so guess this is it for now. I hope everything turned out well. I wish I could look at you and see what I grew up to be. Were you a pilot, astronaut, or doctor? I hope one of them. But if not, I guess that's okay, too. From the past Quentin I smiled to myself. Much had changed in thirty-three years. I didn't become a pilot or astronaut or doctor. I went to law school and became a lawyer instead. Why? Because I was inspired by a book, To Kill a Mockingbird , and a fictional character in it named Atticus Finch, who was himself a lawyer. There was a knock on my bedroom door. “Come in,” I called as I closed the shoe-box. Cat came in. She was almost as tall as I was, with long dark hair and dark eyes. She wore a plaid button-down shirt, jeans, and was barefoot. An echo of her mother, right down to the lack of fingernail and toenail polish and no rings on her fingers. “It's almost lunchtime,” she said. And then she saw the shoe-box in my lap. “Where did that come from?” “It was on the basement stairs,” I said. “I meant to deal with the clutter down there, but I got distracted by this shoe-box instead.” “Maybe I can help with the clutter,” she offered. “That would be very kind of you,” I said. “Mind if I join you?” she asked. I nodded and moved over, so that she could sit down next to me. Cat touched the shoe-box's lid. “So what is this?” “A box of memories,” I explained. “Something that people used to make long before MySpace and Facebook existed.” “Sort of like a scrapbook?” Cat asked. “Sort of,” I said. “Can I see what's inside it?” she asked. I nodded and handed it to her. She carefully opened it and carefully went through the shoe-box's contents. “Seems to be the sorts of things that a young boy would've been interested in. There's even a folded sheet of paper. Probably something he doodled on. Who did all this belong to?” “It belonged to me,” I said. “Apparently I created it when I was ten years old. To be stored away until I was grown up.” Cat glanced at me. “You mean, like a time capsule?” I nodded. “Something to remind myself of who I used to be. I even wrote myself a letter.” She removed the folded piece of paper. “Then you didn't just doodle on this.” “Correct,” I said. “May I read it?” she asked. “Or is it too personal?” “Be my guest,” I said. Cat pushed her hair behind her ears and silently read the letter. When she finished, she said, “That's quite a long letter for a ten-year-old. I'm not sure if even I would've written anything that long when I was his age.” She refolded the letter and put it back inside the shoe-box. “It's kind of like finding a bottle on the beach with a letter from 1987 inside it. An echo from a different time, a different world.” Then she noticed the book and took it out. As she did so, something small slid out of it and fell on the bed. It was a small photo. She picked it up and looked at it. “Is this Ma?” she asked. But then she turned the photo over and looked at its backside. “No, it isn't her. It's someone else. Someone named Sharon Ferguson, or 'Sunny' for short. It's dated 1987. A girlfriend of yours, maybe?” “I didn't have a girlfriend back then,” I said. “May I see it?” She nodded and handed the photo to me. The photo was of a pale-skinned preadolescent girl with freckles, green eyes, and red hair in a ponytail. At first I didn't recognize her. But then, like a recording, I could hear a girl's voice coming from deep within my memories. A voice I hadn't heard in over thirty years. * * * * * * * * * * “Quentin? It's Sunny. Why don't we go outside and play?” “I don't want to,” I heard a boy grumble. He sounded familiar. “Why not?” she asked. “Because I don't want to play House again,” he said. “It's dumb.” “Okay - then what do you want to play?” she asked. The boy's face came into view and I saw my ten-year-old face. Probably not what you'd call good-looking, but nothing too scary. And then I saw her face. She was very pretty. But why wasn't she hanging out with other boys, the popular ones? Or maybe she was bored with them? “What if we went to the park?” I suggested. “It was a new playground. If it gets too hot, we could sit in the shade near the duck pond.” Sunny looked thoughtful, then nodded. The park was about a block or two from our elementary school. You could get there either by the street side, or through the field and woods on the other side of the school. We chose the latter route. As we walked along, she asked, “Do you ever wonder what you'll be when you're a grownup?” “Sometimes,” I said. “Maybe a pilot, because they get to fly to faraway places. Or an astronaut, because they get to travel in space. Or a doctor, because they help people. What about you?” “I think I want to be a scientist or an engineer,” she said. She was definitely smart enough. Compared to her grades, mine were awful. Not as bad as my father's were, but that's not saying much, since he almost flunked out of school. “I wish I could be one of those,” I said. “You could,” she said. “You're pretty smart.” I shook my head. “Not like you are.” “Maybe you just need some help,” Sunny said. “But who would help someone dumb like me?” I asked. “You aren't dumb, Quentin,” she said. “I know you aren't.” “You're just trying to be nice,” I said. She frowned. “No, I'm not. I bet with a little tutoring you could improve your grades.” She grabbed me by the arm, and we stopped, facing each other. “ I could be your tutor, in fact.” “Why would you do that, Sunny?” I asked, puzzled. “Because we're friends,” she said. “And friends help each other.” “If you think it'll do any good,” I said. “I sure do,” she insisted. “I could start helping you today. in fact. After we get back home, I mean.” “All right,” I said. “If it's not too much work for you.” “It isn't.” Then she smiled and tapped me on the arm. “Tag! You're it!” She ran ahead and I ran after her. In the park, parents were seated on benches that were in the shade. They talked with each other while watching children and dogs play. The fountain in the middle of the park was on and some of the kids were running in and around it, getting wet as they cooled off. “Hey!” someone said, giving me a shove from behind. “Lookee here, it's Quentin. The school idiot.” His two best friends stood nearby, snickered and hooted with laughter. I recognized the voice as Dwayne's. One of the school bullies. I kept my back to him and tried to ignore him. Sunny turned around, though, and said, “Don't call him that.” “Why not?” Dwayne asked. “It's his name, ain't it? What else do you expect me to call him? Moron? Mental retard?” “He isn't stupid and you know it,” she said. “Then why are his grades so bad?” Dwayne asked and laughed. “Have you seen 'em? They're even worse than mine are.” “I don't care,” Sunny said angrily. “You just leave him alone. You hear me?” “Isn't it a shame?” Dwayne teased me. “Too weak to defend yourself, so you have to have a girl protect you.” I turned around to face him, fists clenched, arms held against my sides. “Don't give in, Quentin,” Sunny warned me. “It isn't worth it.” “What choice do I have?” I asked. “Yeah, if you're so smart, Sharon, you should tell him what to do,” Dwayne said. “Mama's boy don't know how to stand up for himself, anyway.” His insults and teasing were having the desired effect and he knew it. I stepped past Sunny, my fists raised. She tried to pull me back. “No. Don't do this.” “Maybe I want to,” I said. “You wanna go home with a black eye?” she asked. “Maybe I do,” I said. “It would be worth it just to plant one on his stupid face.” “Hey, Carrots, maybe you should let him be stupid without your help,” Dwayne teased her. Sunny went cold and still. “What did you call me?” “You heard me,” he said. “Carrots, Carrots!” Dwayne's friends parroted. Next thing I knew, Dwayne was flat on his back with a bloody nose, and Sunny was on top of one of his friends, straddling him as she punched him. Dwayne's other friend had backed off, like the coward he was. Dwayne got to his feet and wiped away the blood flowing from his nostrils. He looked at Sunny's unprotected back and smiled to himself. I grabbed him by the arm, yanking hard enough to force him to face me. He didn't like that. “You leave her alone,” I said. “Oh yeah?” he retorted. “And what are you gonna do? Cry on me?” That did it. I punched him in the face with my left fist. It hurt enough that I had to wring it until the pain went away. But the shocked and hurt look on his face was worth it. “Why you little runt,” he said, getting into my face. But he didn't get a chance to do more than that. The adults were on their feet now, forcibly separating Sunny and me from Dwayne and his buddies. The adults were frowning at all of us. I'd never seen them this angry. “Of all the stupid things you could've done,” a white-haired black woman told us, “and you decide to have a fight here at the park. What would your parents think if we told them? Hmm?” She looked at Dwayne first, pointing her forefinger at him. “No surprise that you're involved in it.” He looked like he'd rather be anywhere but here. “Kathleen?” the black woman called to another adult, a white woman. The second woman was younger, and maybe a few inches taller. She had short dark hair, and looked strong enough to play football. “Take Dwayne home and tell his parents what happened.” Kathleen grimly nodded. “Gladly, Geraldine.” She came forward, ready to grab him by the arm. “But I didn't start it!” Dwayne complained, trying to pull away from her. “I didn't punch him first. He punched me first!” “You did start it,” Geraldine said. “We were watching. And from what we could tell, they were both minding their own business. But you just couldn't leave them alone, could you?” He looked like he was going to cry. “It's not fair! I'm going to tell my parents how awful you are!” Kathleen narrowed her eyes at him. “Don't threaten me, boy. We're going to talk with your parents. Who knows? They might just ground you again, even if the school doesn't expel you.” As they left, Dwayne kept trying to free himself. He looked back at me once, gave me an angry look, and tried to make a rude gesture with his free hand. Kathleen grabbed that hand and pulled it back down. “Don't think I didn't see that,” she told him. “You are in a world of trouble, boy.” Once they were gone, it was Dwayne's friends' turn next. “You have a choice: act like him, or go home right now,” Geraldine said. They took their heels and never looked back once. Geraldine sighed and finally looked at Sunny and me. “Maybe you two should go home, too,” she said in a much calmer voice. “But it wasn't our fault,” Sunny protested. “I know it wasn't,” Geraldine said firmly. “That wasn't why I suggested it. Maybe you could spend the rest of the day tutoring him. Unless you'd rather end up like Dwayne?” I shook my head. “I didn't think so,” Geraldine said. “Are you going to tell our parents?” I asked her. “About this fight?” “I'll make you a deal,” Geraldine said. “Let Sunny help you improve your grades and I won't tell anyone about this fight.” She held out her hand. “Is it a deal?” I nodded and shook her hand. “Deal.” With Sunny's tutoring, my grades steadily improved. As a reward, Sunny gave me a photo of herself. If only I hadn't lost it before the end of the school year. * * * * * * * * * * But now I'd found it again, with my daughter's help. “I guess sometimes you need to pick up something old,” I said, “dust it off, and look at it with new eyes. I certainly did in this case..” “Did you two ever date?” my daughter asked, handing the shoe-box back to me. I shook my head. “But we did stay really good friends. All the way through high school.” “How did you manage to forget her, then?” she asked. “She sounded really special.” I shrugged. “Maybe it was when we went to different colleges. Or later on, after I finished law school. I was pretty busy for a long time. And then I met your mother, which made my life even busier ... but for a good reason.” “I wonder what happened to Sunny,” Cat mused. “Maybe you should try to find her. Now that you're single again, I mean.” “Hint?” I said. “She might have forgotten about me after all these years.” “Or maybe she hasn't,” she said. “Try using Facebook, Pa. I've found some old friends that way.” She stood up. “See you in the kitchen.” She left my bedroom, gently closing the door behind her. “Thank you, Quentin and Sunny,” I whispered. “For everything.”