I still have my first rattle, gifted to me by my father when I was one. The toy has seen better days, but you can still make out what it was back then: pink and purple with a display of wings and sunflowers throughout. When you shake it, you can still hear the rattling within. I try not to shake it too much just incase what’s inside runs out somehow. What more is needed of a rattle? Now displayed on my entertainment set in the living room, I’ve kept it all this time because it reminds me of a simpler time, a time of innocence, and times with my mother. There are no teeth marks on the toy; I knew other kids who chewed theirs, and even see babies chewing them in their strollers sometimes, but mine is of a shape that does not allow for easy chewing. That’s good, because its kept its form after all these years. When my friends come over, they say things like, “That’s so beautiful,” and, “Whose is that?” And I am proud that I’ve kept it. I know my father would be proud, too.

Coming home from the crematorium today, they gave me another rattle. This one has my father inside, they told me. I didn’t shake it because the top was loose, but I placed it next to my first rattle. A pretty sight. A perfect familly.