Box of Memories
Blood was not the first thought that crossed her mind. The color was brighter, not an apple but more of a bell pepper red. The smooth surface acted as a comfort to the hands that would soon enough be dealing with the rough material it contained inside.
The years of shiny tape had added up. The box hadn’t just been covered in midnight blue tape but it had also been covered in duct tape, light-safe black tape and green as well as yellow tape. Each year the color was preserved with a new one, making the box heavier each time it was placed neatly back in its shelf. She’d sit at the head of her bed with the box in her hands, its shadow cast on the rust colored walls. With every slow blink a new item from inside the box would be reflected in her small brown eyes.
First was the bucket list taped to the lid of her now red box of memories. Twirl in a fog storm, run through a field of flowers and touch a waterfall, were a few of the words that hadn’t worn out due to her fingers constant graze on the notepad paper. He would then flip through the photographs. Time after time he knew she would try organizing them by size but still the pile formed a series of jagged edges. Near the top was their picture.
He saw it all in the Polaroid. The air was humid. The sun hot as the water rippled every time his friends plunged in. They had been at the swimming hole when he spoke to her for the first time, calling to her between drags of his cigarette as he swung from the rope. “If you don’t answer me, I’ll be forced to jump and I don’t know how to swim”, he yelled. She lifted her skirt up to her knees, as she walked through the grass laughing. “I’ve seen you swim all summer”. She began to walk towards the little shack as he jumped in the water . A combination of mud and sand stuck onto his feet as he ran onto shore chasing after her.
By the time he got there she was laying on the mattress, as peaceful as can be in her grass stained dress. He laid next to her as the rays of sunshine dried the water drops from his arms. With every few words she had brushed the curls from her face. Her smile bursting into a laugh every time he pulled her closer. Light burst through the shutters casting shadows on the sheets. Her curls now twisted perfectly around his fingers. She was still speaking in the picture, his lips covering her words. He couldn’t glance at her without staring, without smiling at those small things: the way the strap hung from her shoulder , the way she bit her lip when she thought and the way in which she rubbed her eye when she was uncomfortable. She had left as quickly as it begun without ever leaving. He saw her eyes look at his and away and back.
She saw the same look in his eyes as she had on countless occasions. The way his eye brows curled as he stared at her, transfixed by whatever she said. His semi silent laugh. The hands that held her up as well as down. The way they moved when he told a story. He had this distinct way of listening and analyzing. She always loved his expression in that picture. His smile covering her lips, asking her to stop speaking. She made the box and had filled it with the memories. He always admired her for that. “I wish I could put us in my box” she whispered as the camera clicked.
They stayed up till dawn that day, talking as the rain tapped on the leaves outside. Water seeping through the cracks of the whitewashed wooden roof. “I have this box” she said as she wiped the raindrop from his face and another one fell in its place. “I want to give it to you”. That day they walked down the hill and with every glance of the photograph he could remember the exact feelings he had.
That had all passed. The last time they were together he watched her fall asleep, the smell of booze in his hair and the scent of sun block on her skin. She twisted and turned in a cold sweat hugging him as he rocked her to sleep with her wheezing laugh, its sound making him feel at home. With one hand clenched on her chest and the other around his body she fell asleep and awoke the next morning.
He couldn’t get through the rest of the box, he knew its belongings by memory, each article stored in the archives of his memory. As he drove to see her one last time he held the box in his arms. He circled the creek and pulled up behind the shack, the grass now tall and brown. His friends patted him on the back as they made their way out onto the road. She laid there the same way she had that first day in the little house, so peaceful. He held the box every night after she left. “I thought I could keep you that way, put us in the box, you know. But it just keeps reminding me of that-you know, that attack you had, the shit you didn’t do”, he said as the breeze rustled the leaves on the trees. He measured the red box against her grave and with his hands carved the soil around it. With every word he buried the box deeper through the same mixture of dirt and grass that marked their footsteps that summer.
Sadness was not the first thought that crossed his mind. The feeling was worse, not of remorse for keeping her that night, but more of an emptiness. The photograph in the pocket of his blue jeans acted as a consolation to the emotions he had been dealing with. He walked back towards the shack, leaving the box and all the other memories in it behind. And as he laid down on the bed he pinned their photograph on the shutters. The sunshine shining through window, drying the beads of sweat from his arms.
we all seem to function on coffee
walking around. the new york thing.
