I sat crossed legged on the floor of my childhood room. The paint’s been redone once again. From sunny yellow, to nauseating pink and purple stripes, now coming to a calm sunset blue. I took out that box, the one that usually remains settled, dormant, untouched for many years. It’s the one you dig out in moments- of nostalgia, sadness, and sometimes weakness.
It contains all but moments- things that should have been thrown out many moons ago. But somehow find themselves still here, living harmoniously inside this cream colored secret box of mine.
I open it slowly, like a gift that keeps on giving- the lid is covered in quotes and words. All dated and signed like I was afraid I’d forget that I wrote them.
What sits at the top is a collection of old birthday cards. From best friends, past friends, and people who were there in passing. But it’s never about the pieces at the top, the things so easily on display for whoever discovered it. It’s always the deeper you dig, the more treasure you find. The closer you get to the love, the closer you get to knowing me.
Because at the bottom, are letters, the remaining pieces of loves, and lovers. The pieces that I consciously stopped remembering. Except for when I open this box. I guess the thing about letting go, is that we never truly do. Never let go completely. And maybe its not so that we have reminders of those people we loved- but so that we can have reminders of who we were when we loved like that. When I loved like that. Someone who loved so fiercely, for not knowing a thing about love at all. Was she loving right? Should she care more? Care less?
How silly it all seems now, because there was never a right way at all. Love was love. Love is love. And it came in many forms.
Maybe it was CD’s of dub-step, with letters written longhand, describing each song. The moment you feel the drop, anticipating it. All those shiny silver disc’s wrapped in handmade envelopes entitled “Moar Lyrics. Moar Fun. Moar Love.” How you listened to it, over and over, in those walls that were still so pink and purple, you were dizzy. Partly from the color, partly from the songs.
Maybe it was love notes. Celebrating seven months of first love and first loving. Postcards marked from Spain. How you checked the mail every day, just up until that very card came. How we dreamed of being lovers in Spain. How loving you was an adventure all on its own.
Maybe it was cling peach jars, and three versions of the same letter, written to the same lover. Filling the jar to the brim with quotes- words from another mind, saying everything your fourteen year old self didn’t have the guts to say. But you spent the time, finding the exact right ones, clipped them up- to hand over in a jar, to a boy, in the middle of the rain, on that very driveway where he’s picked you up a handful of times. How you’d love that boy for a long while.
All love. All different. All beautiful. All their own.
So, the box, the one we keep in the back. Sealed tight with pictures, letter, cards, and your heart. All living simultaneously inside. Take it out every once in a while, blow off the dust, take in the moments.
Because it’s all just proof. Proof that you’ve loved like this, and that you’ll love again. Stronger and better. Each time. With time. With life.¶