Sunday, October 24, 2010


There’s a sealed cardboard box in the middle of the room, the Super finally brought it up because I’ve been avoiding picking it up for weeks.

My sister and law had it shipped, she told me it would be coming, the box inside the box marked is marked “Claudia”. She hadn’t opened it, she found the box, it was filled by my mother who now remembers my name but little else. My mom filled it back when she was invincible, she filled the box back then.

The box is unopened there in the middle of the room. I left it down there with the super, down there in the basement where I didn’t have to look at it. Now that it’s in the middle of the room "anxious" overcomes me. Anxious times sad times regret then what now.

The box and I are in a standoff. Now vs. how life used to be, when my mom was sharp, there to talk to, before she talked in sound bites, pull the string, a doll with a sweet voice answers back.

I could make room in my closet, next to the childhood stuffed toys I can’t part with, store it there next to the way things used to be.

The box would stay sealed, taped shut, out of site.

The box with my name on it; packed by my mother back when things were good.

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