Originally published in Friday Flash Fiction
“I know he’s not real.”
She nodded softly, guided two slumping shoulders down the hall and from under a frumpy bed produced a worn shoebox. His velvet hands removed wrinkled envelopes, and together they visited the time before.
Her boy blushed at his barely legible hopes, gaped at his youthful gluttony, and nodded at the restraint of his “later” years.
He returned to the box, snickering at the tuft of newborn hair and marveling at the tiny teeth, remnants of blood still caked inside.
Then he toddled to his room and gently slid the box under a small tidy bed.