The ex-box

We recently moved into the new house. Well, not really new, just newly painted and carpeted. Anyway, my sister and I were putting away some of our things last Saturday. Of course, this is the time where you figure out what to throw away and what to keep. Out of the mountain of shoes and unused clothing, there was one box that stood out. This box was filled with two bears (one with its nose bitten off by my doggy woggy), a mug, a dog, and some other stuff I couldn't see. Little sis picked up some of the things, examined almost all the items as if she were trying to remember something, then placed them gently in the box, which she sealed and marked: Ex-Box. I laughed, but wondered why these things, no matter how far in the past we have to look back, still have a place in our lives, be it in boxes hidden in damp closets.

Five minutes later, I found an old bag, which I thought contained several drawings Gabie made for a project I had in college.

The bag was half-empty, except for a few old letters.

I had found my Ex-Box.

Most of the stuff from my Ex I burned years ago. I remember spending a humid afternoon with my best friend, Cedrick, bitter, numb and exhausted, throwing hundreds of letters in Mom's huge pot (used to make a big vat of soup). Those letters burned ashy black; Evidence of a past I thought I would stop living. I thought, that day, that my feelings along with mental pictures would perish in the flames too. Obviously, I was wrong. The flame didn't die for another three years.

So, I stood there reading that letter, the first after the ones that were burned and the first of the few to come in the next year and a half. It was the good-bye letter written to me before I moved back to California. I read those words and wondered why I allowed myself the right to be stupid. I was aware of the empty promises that letter held, like a void contract waiting to expire. I knew it then, I know it more now. And it's not like I lacked foresight. I knew how things would end up, that I was chasing my own tail, that he was a traitor-in-the-making.

As I read the last few paragraphs, I laughed at the words he used, at his feeble explanations. I had no longing nor pain in the middle of my chest. I didn't feel the need for closure. There is nothing left to analyze, feel or agonize about. But, see, that's what I wondered: after ten years of all of that, was there really nothing to show for it?

Surprisingly, I am not broken, no battlewounds on the chest or abnormal palpitations. I am not half the person I used to be, nor am I bitter and angry. I have no excess luggage or issues worthy of expensive couch-time. I left those things where they belong- pinpoints in time that make up my history. What I have are tiny insights that I draw upon every now and then, little reminders of how bad it was and how great it is now.

I threw the letter back in the bag and chucked it in the storage room. It will remain there forgotten, the testimony of what could have been and what is:

That my boy friend's shoes are sitting on my shoe rack. That he'll be back no matter what happens, that he need not put himself in writing because he shows himself everyday. Unguarded, unscathed, all laughter and honesty. And he's mine, all mine. And I will love him like I have never loved before- selfless and secure, because after 10 years of all of that, Francis is what I have to show for it.