Old Memories Can Still Be Found in the Box

After my grandmother left, I dug out the old wooden box that had been her dowry. Inside there was half a red rope, a copper thimble, and a yellowed photo - she was eighteen years old, leaning against a peach tree and smiling. I put the thimble on my finger and it was just right. It turns out that she kept the size until I grew up. That night I sat in front of the window where she was sewing. The moonlight filled the empty chair, but I still seemed to be able to hear the tiny stitches passing through time. The old memories are not gone, they are just waiting quietly at the bottom of the box.