The cedar chest sat at the foot of my bed, a reminder of the mother I lost in 2020.
There were few things I’d wanted from my mom’s house: a few pieces of jewelry (none worth much), some photos, and that cedar chest. It had been part of my childhood, a reminder of my great-aunt, and was purchased at her estate sale sometime in the 1980s. The chest probably wasn’t worth much, but it carried a bit of nostalgia with it. My mom kept some keepsake items in it: a doll from her childhood, a handmade quilt, and some photos.
In the end, the chest made its way home to me, serving quietly as storage and low-key decor. It contained the quilt my grandmother made for me, some blankets, and some of the kids’ keepsakes. And every time I opened it, the smell of fresh cedar took me right back to being a kid again.
When we began packing up our belongings to move to Spain, I knew this chest was one of the things I wanted to put in storage. Eventually, I said, I want it to come to Spain. It’s been in storage since May 2024, quietly awaiting my return.
I’ve gone back and forth with ChatGPT (who is probably sick of hearing about this chest by now), with Will, and in my own head about the logistics of bringing it to Valencia. Every time I dive down that rabbit hole, I end up wringing my hands in frustration, because no matter how I slice it, it’s going to be expensive — and even if I decide to ship it, I can’t be sure it will arrive in one piece.
Now, as 2026 quickly approaches, we’re making plans to finally empty out that storage unit, and it’s time to make a decision about the cedar chest.
Last week, Will and I had a conversation about the pieces of history our parents pass down to us, bit by bit. While these things are important to them for one reason or another, I think answering the why is more important when you have to consider letting them go.
I’ve previously written about how little my mom and her siblings grew up with. Her parents — my grandparents — were products of the Great Depression. They lived in the same home for decades, which didn’t even contain an indoor bathroom. I have distinct memories as a child of going out to the outhouse to take care of bathroom needs. I also remember hauling buckets of water to the house from a nearby spring (but can’t remember what it was for). My grandparents were humble, hardworking people who had little, so what little they had was treasured, right down to a simple newspaper subscription.
When you consider that family history, you can begin to understand how my mom also learned to value what she had, even when it didn’t have much monetary value. It also explains why, when emptying her house to sell it, my siblings and I discovered professional clothes from her teaching career dating back to the 1990s (which she never wore), a Sears catalog from the early ‘90s, and every postcard I ever mailed her from my travels around the world (this one was a punch in the gut).
That cedar chest became important to me because it was important to my mom.
If I were to value that chest and try to sell it, I’d guess it wouldn’t bring more than $100. It’s a bit roughed up, lightweight, and old. But because of its value to her, it has — by default — become important to me.
Growing up in a household where money is always, always a problem can create a mentality that every. single. thing. is special when, in reality, none of it is. Our parents want to pass something special on to us — something that was special to them — but in doing so, it often becomes a burden. What do you do with something that meant so much to your parent but feels more like pushing a stone up a hill for eternity for you?
The truth is, in a generation or two, no one will remember who my mom was. They won’t remember her smile, laugh, grit, or her success despite overcoming overwhelming odds. They also won’t remember who owned the cedar chest, how it came to be in our family, or why we kept it.
As I contemplate what we’ll bring back to Spain from the U.S., I can’t help but think it’s time to let the cedar chest go. The longer I’m away from it, the less pull I feel toward it. At the time, I couldn’t imagine selling it, and now? It feels like much more of a burden to bring it here than to keep it. It’s representative of a time and a place in my life that no longer exists. It lives in my memories, and while I’d like to say that one of my kids will one day want it in their home, they probably won’t even remember its presence.
More and more, I think about the legacy I’d like our kids to have. I don’t want it to be things we leave behind. Rather, I hope they’ll carry good memories and a sense of financial security I never had.