"Out of the Box" by Souvie copyright September 2006 Author's Note: Heavily influenced by Desdmona's "Moon Ghosts and Memory Boxes." Written in a Creative Writing class my last semester of college. Expertly tweaked by Denny. * * * * * * * * * I started "the box" when Stephen Miller dumped me in ninth grade. I stormed through my room gathering up everything he'd ever given me. I'd planned on burning the whole lot of it: cards, letters, pictures, even the cheap dime-store necklace he'd won at last fall's carnival. At the last minute, something stopped me. I put aside the necklace and the one love poem he'd written and tossed the rest in the trash compactor. I rummaged in my closet and found the old plain, brown hatbox Ninny had passed down to me a couple of Christmases before. Sitting in the middle of my bedroom floor, I decorated the box with bits of wrapping paper, glitter and anything else that struck my fancy. When I'd finished, I put the necklace and poem inside and shoved the box under my bed. All throughout the rest of high school the box became something of a ritual. My boyfriend - whoever it might be at the time - and I would break up and I would place something in the box. Sometimes it was a photo, or a love letter; other times it was a corsage or a piece of jewelry. And every so often, when I felt like I'd never find my "Mr. Right," I'd take out the box and sift through the memories. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, the moon peeking in through the blinds, I'd trace over the pictures and re-read the letters, then go to sleep, the ghosts of boyfriends-past keeping a silent vigil. The box accompanied me to college, where it continued its faithful service. Halfway through college I met Jason. Even though we were complete opposites, we hit it off and continued dating long past graduation. One evening, shortly after we were married, I was going through some boxes, getting rid of most of my old stuff. The items I wanted to keep would go into storage out in the garage. I pulled out the old box - "the" box. Running my hands along its worn surface, I was drawn in to the myriad of memories it held. The spell was broken when Jason asked, "What's that?" "This?" I held it up, trying to see it from his perspective. "Just a collection of sorts." I walked to the corner of the room where the big trashcan was, the one we'd drug in from outside. "You're throwing it away?" "Yeah," I answered, slowly nodding. As I let it go, I watched the box fall, hitting the bottom of the can with a solid "thunk." "Why?" I walked over and sat in his lap, wrapping my arms around his neck and resting my head on his shoulder. "Because I don't need it anymore," I answered with a smile.