Fuzzy, buzz-cut hair popped into view from just below the edge of my bed. He had slithered silently into my room, wriggling his way across carpet in his flannel pjs. I asked what he was doing there, so early on a Sunday morning.

“Getting your Mother’s Day present!” he said, face beaming.

“You hid it under my own bed?”

His beam brightened. He knew he’d kept his secret well and had surprised me.

From under my bed he retrieved a pink gift bag, stapled shut, decorated with sponge-painted flowers. I could imagine the work his kindergarten teacher had put in, helping my son and his classmates create gifts out of Popsicle sticks and love; impressing on them the importance of keeping their work a surprise.

I’ve kept this box on my desk, next to my computer, for almost fifteen years now. It holds my paperclips, a bobby pin, a smiley face eraser, and a stray penny. As a paperclip holder, it’s probably the least practical container I could use. My clips slip out through spaces between Popsicle sticks.

But I don’t care.

I don’t really keep it on my desk to hold paperclips. The box sits on my desk, filled with love and memories of that little boy who slithered his way into my room early one Mother’s Day to surprise me.

And who, sometimes, surprises me still.

Sharing a Mother’s Day memory over at emily’s place: