Childhood's End

There is a moment, probably just a wink of time, during which thoughts turn into memories. Some of them don't stick very well, like when we say, "I don't remember saying that," or that other sock. Some of them get stuck way down deep and become the essence of everything that comes after that thought. Like the moment I decided to move to California. It really was just a switch that flipped. There may have been an audible click on that one.
But this past week was different. Up until oh-so-very-recently our son's toys lived in a corner of our basement. On the off chance that he may have needed access to the bits and pieces of his tangible childhood, it would be easy enough to rummage through a pile of boxes and assorted containers to find that thing that was pulled out of Random Access Memory. That access changed when my wife and I pulled all of that stuff through the space that used to be our chimney where it landed in our attic.
Including the Legos.
Those plastic tubs of plastic building blocks were the most significant item not simply because of the weight and volume, but because of the memories associated. Most every birthday, Christmas or occasion that might have been recognized by a gift has a Lego kit connected to it. Each new release of a Star Wars movie. Finally being old enough to take on the really complex models. And the cars. The ones he built right up until the time when his own real car began to overtake his building and repair attentions.
The day that we hauled all those Legos up through the center of our house, we got the news that our son had finally succeeded in putting a new engine into his Toyota Supra. That months-long project culminated at virtually the some moment that all those toys had come to rest in the attic. Just days after he had completed his coursework to become eligible for graduation from college. It is true that he has passed by the line of demarcation defined by his twenty-first birthday, but somehow this was the moment where his adulthood fully descended upon us all.
Not that he won't have access to it all. We didn't set it out on the street for people to pick through. It's up in the attic, for the time when he decides to pull the ladder down and crawl up into the dark to poke through that corner of the attic. The corner that is a four hour drive away. That implies that the newly restored Supra is up to the trip and doesn't require his more immediate attention.
And thoughts.
That will eventually be memories.