THE CARDBOARD BOX

By Wendy Shywalker

As I walk toward your desk, the cardboard box pressed tightly to my chest, I can't believe what I am doing. Is this the final act of acceptance--that you are gone?

I run my hand over your chair, looking for the warmth of your body. Have you just left-- no it's cold. Sitting down, I close my eyes, hearing your voice so clear, that I open them, to see you. I look for you, not there--gone but not forgotten.

It has to be done, taking a deep breath, the first thing I see is your personal date book, open to today. I see my name, Peter-lunch-two o'clock. Turning the pages, I see so many lunches--so many talks. I close the book, placing my hand on it for a moment--sighing, I place it in the box.

One by one your things are relegated to the emptiness of this paper confine.

So secret--your life. So many things you never told me, I guessed--I never asked. You weren't proud of part of your life. You did things, you didn't want to talk about--I understood that, but the person I knew, should have been proud, of who and what he was. I only know of two others, that I hold in the same esteem.

I smile; the photo--how you hated having you picture taken. I had tricked you into this one, presenting it to you as a present, framed so you couldn't tear it up and throw it away. Picking it up, I remember that day it was taken--remembering all our days.

The picture is not for the box.

I walk to my desk, standing the picture where I can see it. I find myself sad again--sad for no more days but tinged with happiness for the days I was honoured to have.

I pick up the box and start to walk away, taking one more look at a bare desk, prepared for some one else's memories to move in.

My grip tightens on your life, your everyday things, now precious mementos of a life lived--and so thankfully shared.