Eleven

You're 11 when you come across the boxes in the basement.

You had been looking for your dad's old skateboard. He had, in passing, mentioned how he used to ride, and you, being the adolescent you were, definitely took note of this juicy tidbit. Biking was something everyone could do; how cool would it be if you learned how to skateboard?

Thus initiated your exploration to the basement to brave the jungle of clutter that had amassed there over the years—perhaps good ol' dad still had that board hidden somewhere down here.

After making your way downstairs, you first glance around the room, and subsequently feel annoyance pool in your stomach: it truly was a jungle. With the logic that the clutter closest to the staircase would the newest and that those furthest would be oldest, you decide to start from the latter. Heaving a sigh, you maneuver your way to the far corner (which is no easy feat) to a stack of three cardboard boxes.

From the looks of them, they haven't been touched for years, the dust consequently staking their claim on the surface. You arbitrarily pick one of the boxes, and after quickly blowing at it to weaken the film of dust, you pry it open.

As the air contained in the box wafts to your nose, a sense of familiarity overtakes you; you seem to know that this is related to something from your past, a remnant of good times. It's the scent—which you can only describe as smelling good (hey, you're a dude; you don't go into specifics about that kind of stuff)—that tickles your memory before anything else, before you even begin to sift through the box's contents.

With excitement building in the pit of your stomach, you plunge your hand into the box. The first thing you pull out from the sea of items is a book. A thin, hardcover children's book entitled Bedtime for Baby Star. You crack it open, quickly flipping through the short and sweet poem. However, a strong wave of nostalgia hits you, and you shut the book just as quickly as you had opened it—and you know. You had a gut feeling, but now you know for sure. You know exactly what these boxes hold.

It's your mother's stuff.

You pause, staring hard at the book in your hands. You're not scared of sifting through the boxes, per se. In fact, you're curious. However, you respect your dad enough to know that there's a reason why these are packed away, and that if he wanted to share them with you… he would. This hesitation is short lived, though; at the end of the day, you're still a curious youngster, and these boxes were a treasure trove. This was your mother's stuff! How could you resist?

You carefully place Bedtime for Baby Star aside on the floor next to you (this was something you wanted to keep in your room), and dive in. It's an hour and a boxful of clothes, certificates, and soccer trophies later when your dad comes to find you. "Hey bud, are you still lookin' for that skateb-"

He stops midsentence when he sees the opened boxes surrounding you. "I… got a little sidetracked?" you offer meekly.

You watch as a series of emotions pass through your father's face in succession. If you weren't so nervous that you would get chastised, you might have found it mildly amusing. Shock gives way to annoyance then to sadness and eventually settles on a sad smile that you can't exactly place. Wordlessly, he walks over and seats himself on the floor next to you. He takes a deep breath, as if trying to get his bearings, then reaches over into the second box and pulls out a photo album. You watch in apprehension as he cracks it open, and slowly flips through the pages, one at a time. Though you don't have a clear view from your vantage point, you can tell that they're photos of your mom and dad, together. He stops at a particular one, and tries in vain to stifle a chuckle.

"What, dad, what?" you question, peering over your father's shoulder.

He shifts so that you can acquire a better view. "Hey, that's me!" you exclaim excitedly. Your father nods. Well, to be more exact, it's a candid photo of you and your mother. You're tiny—the sticker label underneath the photo indicates you're one and a half—and you're perched in a high chair, a mess of baby food everywhere (a mess of your making, no doubt). However, despite the ruckus and mess you've caused (some gloop even having landed on her cheek and nose), your mother is beaming at you, another heaping spoonful in hand. "I don't remember this!" you declare.

Your dad just laughs, "I definitely do. Heck, you're still that messy when you eat, kiddo."

"Hey!"

He falls back into silence. You watch as his hand slowly reaches out and touches your mom's face—slowly, gently, as if even the photographic imprint of her would disappear.

"She's pretty," you whisper.

Your dad replies in a voice even quieter than yours. "Absolutely beautiful." With that, he closes the book and places it back in the box. Looking over at you, he smiles and ruffles your hair. "Well, about that skateboard…"

He gets up slowly and shuffles over to the opposite corner of the basement. After a few minutes of rummaging, he re-emerges, dusty board in hand. "Got it," he declares, making his way back over to you, "go crazy, buddy. Or, uhm—not too crazy now. You still got that helmet in the garage right?"

You look down at the soccer trophies in your lap, and pick up the slightly deflated soccer ball you had found buried within the first box earlier. You have childhood memories of playing soccer, but had stopped ever since—well, ever since your mom had passed away. You bashfully look up at your dad. "Actually… I think I changed my mind. I was wondering if maybe… uhm, maybe I could pick up soccer again?"

Your father just smiles. "Sure thing, little man. Sure thing."

A/N: As always, thanks for reading! There'll be some appearances by some BAU members in the coming chapters, I promise. Feel more than welcome to leave a review, and have a happy new year!