A box with unbroken seal. Received and haunting me now for days. Mourning should be over, I said. All I want it this to be over. But all I can do is stare at the hefty delivery, waiting for me to to carry on. All I want is to carry on. Why can’t I just open the damn box.
Without him, who is family? How am I connected? Where is my home? It’s too late for me – I can’t even go back. Everything has changed while I was confined by a mangled body, too distracted by physical pain and the shame of not being abel to care of one’s self.
Both my body and face have changed. We are heavier and lower and sadder all the time. We have fears and doubt and emptiness. If private, we are frequently inconsolable. Thick … slow and … quiet with night mares.
If I’d been on the farm, I’d have been hugged and offered my shoulder in return. I’d have touched the things that are now sold. I’d have picked up something that no one thought looked important, but might have been my last remaining connection to him. To all of them.
Instead, the sealed box with my father’s handwriting on the outside, stares back at me, reminding me how unready I am. How alone I am with no one. Who understands. That if I know what’s in that box, it’s really. actually. over.
I thought I just wanted this to be over.
When she was dying I dreamed of her showing off a red dress. He loved it and said she was so beautiful. She lit up and danced some more. Then they both came to me, encircled me in their arms and all that was left was a feeling between us. They felt proud of me. For all my short comings, disobedience and unpredictability, I made them proud. I know without a doubt.
Inside the box is a fatal wisdom. To open the box fuses sadness and love indistinguishable and births a heart as dark as it is open once and for all. Never to fly in a fool’s bliss again.