There is a toy box in my parents basement that contains all sorts of wonders from my youth. When my son is old enough I plan on letting him dig into the piles of Star Wars and G.I. Joe figures. I picture it being something like this passage from an article by Alice Bradley about her son and husband’s love affair with all things Star Wars.

Then, one fateful day a couple of weeks later, Scott headed down to the basement and brought up his beloved Star Wars lunch box. It was dented and broken, the hinges no longer functioning, wrapped in masking tape to keep the parts together.

A label was taped across the top: FIGURES. Henry danced around Scott as he pried the box open. The top popped off, and there was every known character from the Star Wars universe. Princess Leia. Luke Skywalker. Darth Vader. Han Solo. Han Solo in Hoth battle gear. Boba Fett. Death Star Engineer #6. And ships too: X-wings and A-wings and B-wings; every variety of wing was crammed into that tin lunch box.

“Maybe we could give him just a few of these?” I said, but Henry was already elbow-deep in the lunch box, hyperventilating. “What do you think, buddy?” Scott said, but Henry could barely hear him.

Someday soon.