Handle with care, there's a log in there.

I am a sentimental sap of the worst kind.
I am particularly reminded of this each time we pack up and move to another household.

Last night I packed up a log.
Yes, you read that right.
A log.
As in, a piece of wood that used to be a branch.
On a tree.
In my grandparent's front yard.

Astonishingly, to most folks, it is a 30-something year old log that has been passed down to me.
It used to sit on a shelf in my grandfather's study and now it is mine.
I keep it displayed next to my grandmother's pretty tea cups.

I suppose it would be safe to say, I am cut from the same sentimental cloth that he was fashioned from.
After all, it was he that cut the branch off the tree and made it into a log 30 something years ago, to be reminded of a moment in time.
And it is I that can cradle a log and weep.

Why the weeping? Because I'm lucky.
Why the log? Because I uttered my first word, "bird", whilst sitting upon the said branch.
Which is now a log.
In bubble wrap.
In a box.
Cherished deeply.
By a lucky and sentimental girl.