Ah, sod it.

dust

I don't remember putting anything away, but then, I don't remember much, these days.

These things I'd thought well-lost? Turns out they're memories, burning like sulfuric acid thrown by a jilted lover. Moments of joy, sitting in dark theatres listening to you play, myself locked tight in your arms, your voice on the phone, across the miles, begging me to leave a light on.

There are no ribbons around these memories, no rose petals scattered with love. There's only me, blinded by pain, scrabbling through the dusty box that is my own heart, looking for discarded moments, desperate to understand.

Loving the drabbles on this topic!!

Oh, I understood that the box (and dress) stayed dry; it's just that the 18-inch line, and the drywall not even being there anymore -- they evoked such destruction.

OK, then, mission accomplished. This hundred word limit, it's hard, but I can already see how it helps refine and focus.

Deb -- ouch. That one is really brittle.

-t, I love yours. The contrast of the devastation and the unharmed box gave me a little chill.

I'm definitely doing more on this topic.

Um, unless you really DO have a human skull in your guest-bedroom closet. Then make up something about blankets, okay?

Every season, I go through my clothes. I re-organize skirts, jackets, and dresses; whatever isn't suited for the weather gets put in the back left corner of the closet, carefully hung with cedar sachets. Every season, I take a small wooden chest down from the top shelf, carefully dust it off, and open it.

"I don't really need you anymore. I'm just keeping you out of habit", I say, staring into empty eye sockets. But I know that eventually the permanent grin will creak open, and I"ll finally have someone to talk to again.

The Box in the Closet

The box originally held a phonograph. Reinforced with yellowed masking tape, it has followed me through at least seven closets. Surely there are dolls out there that need this finery: blue gingham with tiny rickracked pockets, red-and-white polka dots with lace-trimmed white collars, silk pongee with blue embroidered leaves. They should have a better home than a closet, but how can I make another child see the foot working the iron sewing machine pedal up and down, the hands with the same arthritic crook I see bending my own fingers? How do I give up bits of love, made tangible?

These are some mighty fine drabbles.

"I don't really need you anymore. I'm just keeping you out of habit", I say, staring into empty eye sockets.

t loving Jilli madly

I want a real human skull! Roderick the plastic skull wears a tiara and sits on my desk. Sebastian the Halloween left over that lived on my dashboard fell out of the car and got run over.

The box in the closet

It's in the storage shed now, but it lived in the closet of the house I grew up in through high school and college. The treasures of a young girl. Foolish, silly things. Fan magazines with pictures of people I don't recognize anymore. Why did I have that big thing for Sophia Loren when I was 12? Oh, dear, I once thought Donny Osmond was hot. I saw him at the mall with his kids just last month.

But to throw these things out is to throw out my history. The memories live on, of course, but the items have hidden levels. I remember sliding that picture in with that clipping. I hear myself giggle, I remember the smell of Pennsylvania in summer.

Burn it on my pyre when I'm gone.

I Don't Look Anymore

Every scrap of paper she doodled on, or wrote a few sentences on, every sketch, every story, every poem. I gathered them all in a big box, closed them in, all her dreams and hopes and plans for her life. Worlds died with her, but her thoughts aren't gone; they reside in a box in the back of my closet. Half-told stories, lost characters; if I throw out that box, the last things in her mind will be gone. Maybe when I die, someone will find the box, and wonder who she was. Then they'll finally throw it all away.