When you downsize out of the house you’ve lived in for over 4 decades,  you need to excavate top shelves of closets, among other less frequently visited crannies.  It was on such a shelf that I noticed a brown corrugated box, behind other boxes, that at one time I had labeled with black magic marker “Wedding Memorabilia”.  I opened it with some trepidation.

Inside were RSVP’s to our wedding invitation to a luncheon for 50 at a midtown hotel in mid-September 1968, a blue garter and lace handkerchief someone had given me to meet the requisite “something blue” and “something old” must-have list.  And there, underneath these, was the cake’s wedding topper, with its styrofoam wedding bell, framed by an arch of artificial flowers.  Although my husband and I were married under a chuppah, the bell and arch were standard fare for cake toppers in the late 60’s.

It was the plastic groom, with a smear of what looked like old cake frosting stuck to his left eyebrow, that held my attention.  I marveled at how well both he and the bride had held up during the last 4 decades, but, of course, they lived in a box, were made of plastic and didn’t need heart surgery.

I then had to decide what to do with this box and its contents,  after reckoning with the fact that my son and my daughter would likely only want their own wedding memorabilia, living as they did in NYC apartments with limited storage space.

I had a large, black trash bag sitting next to me on the floor and the sentence I would hand down for the box’s contents seemed fairly obvious.  But the only way I could carry it out was by closing my eyes before I stuck everything in.