box

He is waiting for a box. A box is being sent to him, full of things, artefacts of his previous incarnation. His past life with her.

When she packs his books sometimes a card or a silly note fall from the pages. At first she looks at or, reads these things, and then decides it is best not to, to place them back, unseen.

And its not that she is sad now for what can never be, but maybe just a little sad about the end of what was.

Because that’s the heart of it, even when something feels so final, so past tense, there is the memory of that time when it was filled with promise and hope.

Nevertheless now, she will pack his things into the box, fold and pack things neatly, all of that he left behind with her. When she takes it to be sent, watches it carried away, maybe she feels some pang of sadness. The last physical remnants of him are gone now, forever. Maybe she keeps some small thing behind, a sketch? a photograph? A note?

When the box arrives, she, the current she, asks if he is ok and tells him to call her, if he feels strange about it later. Maybe.. Is he sure that he? Doesn’t want her to go with him, to pick it up?

He doesn’t seem to understand all her emotional commotion about his box. It’s just his things, his things that were left behind. He’s getting them back, because they belong to him, that’s all.

When he unpacks it he finds, that jacket he liked, and those shoes he forgot about, and damnit the tripod is broken but, he will dryclean the jacket to wear this weekend, on his birthday.

And when she, the current she, walks into his room, seeing that empty cardboard shell on the floor, gaping open like a hungry mouth, she will feel a little down. She will not be able to explain to him why…