The Box

The one thing she would bring was her box. It was shallow, made of sturdy cardboard, and a plain light brown color. It had a tiny little padlock that was only as wide as her finger, which fastened the lid down tightly against the contents of the box. She kept the key on a blue string that always hung around her neck. The knot in the string was pulled so tight now – since she had worn it for so long – that it would be impossible to remove it from her neck without cutting it. So whenever she pulled out her box to examine its contents or to add something to it, she would crawl under the bed and gently bring it out. Then she would set it on the edge of her bed, sit down on the floor in front of it, and leaning forward, open its padlock with the little key still securely tied around her neck.

She loved opening the box. Every time, no matter how many times she had done it before, it would bring her a little rush of joy to lift the lid. On the right hand side of the box were all of the letters. She had collected them her whole life long. (Her life had not really been long yet, but it seemed long to her.) They were from different friends she had discovered in all different places, from grandparents, from her sister, a couple from her brother, even a few from her parents. Some of them were old, the pages starting to yellow on the edges, the ink of the writing deeply embedded in the fibers of the paper. Some of them were on fancy, colorful paper or had beautifully sculpted writing. Others had been written on notebook paper, casually. Some of them had shallow words. Some had real words. Some had changed her a little bit when she read them. Others she kept only for the rarity of receiving something from that particular sender. But all of them were important to her.

The rest of the box was covered in a medley of her life's memories, piled in the box carefully, but without any particular organization. There was a chip from the salt blog that had sat behind her grandparents house, attracting all kinds of beautiful deer to their yard. She had loved to stand by the backdoor and gaze at them in silent wonder as they timidly arrived in the yard to lick that block.

There was a picture of her with all of her cousins when they were all still young – and innocent. They were all in matching jackets, the girls with their hair curled, the boys with their hair spiked.

And there were two toe nails. They were animal nails, though. One was from her favorite dog as a child. The other was from the fat, lovable cat that had been a brother to that dog. Somehow, they had both managed to lose a nail at one point in their various escapades, and she had nabbed them joyfully when they did. The dog had been big and ridiculously afraid of water. The cat had been gray with white socks on his feet.

There was a duct tape bracelet, a porcupine quill, a bookmark made of pressed flowers, several feathers, two hands full of beautiful or strange rocks. There was a ring that the stone had fallen out of. (It used to have an amethyst opal stone.) There were more pictures – from different places, with different people, from different stages of life. There were things she had drawn, or built, or made herself. There were lots of things she had written (because she loved to write).

And then there were some random things she loved for no good reason. Like the Coke can. Or the cup. Or the candle. Or the book in a language she could not read on a subject she did not care for. Or the maps of places she knew well. Or more strangely, the maps of places she never planned to go to. And her one map of the whole world. Oh, how she loved that map! The creases of its folds were so worn from use that the map could only be kept in one piece if it was opened very. very. very. carefully.

There were some other things also. Sometimes she would find something she couldn't remember why she kept. Sometimes she would find something she didn't remember putting there. But she never took anything out of the box – even when she didn't know why it was there. It all stayed. It was all hers. And it was all she wanted to take if they ever came for her.

She had been told that when they come, they don't give any notice. And you're never given time to prepare anything. You just have to grab your coat and go. So her coat was always under her bed, next to her box. She would hide the box inside her coat. It was the only thing she had to keep with her. It was all of her memories. Even all of the terrible, painful ones were there, right beside the beautiful ones. It was all of her life. It was all of her. And she was going to keep it, no matter what. Her past was all that she could hold onto.

She would not lose it.