MOVING OUT - MEMORIES OF CHANTELLE

"You don't want to move out, do you?" I asked.
"Don't be silly," my daughter, Chantelle, said. "I've been wanting to move out for ages. I thought you supported the idea. You was the one who rang up Social Services."
"It's okay, Chantelle," I said. "I was only joking.
My daughter, Chantelle, was nineteen years old, and moving out from where she'd lived with me for the past nineteen years of her life. Chantelle's never really been that independent and sure of herself; she really wanted to learn. And a house where other people who weren’t independent went to live to learn to be was the best place for Chantelle to go.
Today was the day it was finally happening. Chantelle and I were in her bedroom; I was helping her to pack all her stuff away into cardboard boxes.
“Mum, I need another cardboard box.”
“I don’t think I’ve got anymore,” I replied. “I’ll just go into the attic to look.”
I turned and left the bedroom. The attic was situated in the doorway of our bathroom. It had a pull string hanging down from it. I pulled the string to let the attic open, and pulled down the ladder and let myself inside.
It was quite dark inside the attic and turned on the light to see by. Just a little slither of glow showed.
‘Must remember to buy more bulbs,’ I said to myself.
I started sifting through all the cardboard boxes. Most of them I couldn’t use. One was home to Christmas decorations and another one was housing videos that had been replaced by DVD’s, and was waiting to be taken to the charity shop. And then I saw it.
It was another cardboard box, but the reason it made me stop and look at it was because it was smaller than all the rest. I couldn’t remember seeing it there before. I dragged it over to me for a closer inspection.
“CHANTELLE’S BABY BOX” was inked on the side in blue and in capitals. It was getting curiouser and curiouser. I couldn’t remember doing a baby box for Chantelle. But then, It was quite a while ago she was a baby...
I opened it up, and looked inside. I couldn’t really see properly, so I spilled the contents on the floor in the light. There was all sorts. There was a baby-sized pink dress, a blue dummy with a picture of Tigger on it, and a baby-sized blue swimsuit, with a picture of Ariel on it.
I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten about all this stuff. This was back when Chantelle was such a little angel. Only now, she’d turned into a big devil, wanting to leave her poor old mother.
I noticed there were several bits of paper on the floor. I picked them all up, and sifted through them. There was a photo of Chantelle and I on a beach somewhere. Chantelle was dressed in her Ariel swimsuit, and I was holding her in my arms. Chantelle smiling so sweetly. One was a painting Chantelle did when she was only two years old. I knew because it was labelled. It was a not exactly flattering painting of me. I had really long arms and really long legs. And a mane of hair, like a lion’s. Underneath, Chantelle had painted: “MUMMIE LUVE CHAN CHAN”
I felt tears brimming up when I saw the label. When Chantelle was younger, she couldn’t say her name properly. She could only say the first syllable of her name, and she would only repeat the first syllable twice. It wasn’t until she was four that she started to learn to say her last syllable - Telle.
I looked at the other pieces of paper. There was a newspaper cutting I’d saved from the day Chantelle was born. But the words had long ago disintegrated, that I couldn’t make them out. I could only read the headline, “SIX DIE IN SHOE SHOP COLLAPSE.”
The last piece of paper was a handprint Chantelle did a nursery. Underneath was the words: “CHANTELLE AGED TWO”
I delved among the other possessions. There was a copy of “The Little Mermaid” on VHS. It was the first copy Chantelle owned, and she watched it so often the tape got worn out, and I had to buy her a new copy.
I suddenly realized what this was. This wasn’t really a baby box. It was a box containing the first things Chantelle owned or made. Her first dress. Her first dummy. Her first swimsuit. Her first painting. The first photo I took of her. Her first handprint. The first video she owned.
It was basically all memories. Looking at this stuff took me back nearly nineteen years ago, when Chantelle was a baby. When Chantelle had completely moved into this place, then I still had the baby box. Except it wasn’t a baby box anymore...
I raced down the ladder, and headed down for the kitchen.
“Mum?” I heard Chantelle’s voice from the bedroom. “Mum, have you got a cardboard box yet?”
“Just a sec!” I called back. “I have to do something!”
I found a big black marker pen, and raced back up to the attic. When I reached the box, I crossed out the words “CHANTEELE’S BABY BOX” and wrote underneath: “MEMORIES OF CHANTELLE”
“MUM!”
“Yeah, okay, Chantz!” I shouted back. “I’m still looking!”
I sat back on the floor. Writing those three words had shown that I had accepted it was time for Chantelle to move out and for me to move on. But it also meant that even though I had moved on, I still had her memories...

The End by Charlene Samm