box

She gave me a small cardboard box, one I could easily wrap my arms around, and her room smelled of an exhausted chaos. Her tired eyes averted the box as she handed it to me, and I knew this was painful for her, painful enough I could feel the weight of the box as I took it from her fragile arms. It suddenly made sense, everything he ever gave her, the little things that nipped at her heart, splashing memories around her mind where she did not want them anymore. She would have packed away everything she saw him in had there been a large enough box; yet, here was a box a young child could carry and feel they had contributed in some way. I needed to put it someplace, a place I never had to see it either, and I prayed I would never have to pack my own cardboard box for someone else to take from me someday.