I lifted the box out of the chest with both hands.

It was surprisingly light, no heavier than an empty shoebox or a bundle of dry letters.

I set the box on top of the open cedar lid and ran my fingernail along the hard ridge of yellowed tape.

After fifty-five years in the dark, the glue had gone hard as bone, sealing the air inside.

My mother hadn’t written a single name or date on the cardboard.

She labeled every canning jar in the pantry and every bill folder in her desk, but this green box had no marking on it at all.