Call Me Pandora

In a box in his garage he hides the memories of 'us'.
I don't know the items he chose to keep, but I guess it would be a part of me that I will never find again.

Inside the worn cardboard box are memories I would like to hold, smell and read.
Would I feel the fool for the words I shared or would I be sad for the person I am now?

Hidden under an old t-shirt and hats are the hopes I had for becoming a better woman.
Tucked underneath papers is the real man he was when he was in my arms.

It's been so long since I haven even thought about that box of his.

Is it still there waiting for him to pull back the taping and reveal the edges of the flaps?
I know him. The sound of the box opening will be like the moment in a Greek mythology. He knows the sweet sound will open a part of Pandora he can't even fathom holding again.

Each item in the box was placed in there with great thought.

It's not the hodge podge of US that if an outsider stumbled upon it wouldn't understand it.
Each paper, note, letter, movie stub and score card would tell a story of two people who slow danced in the living room and connected through words and music.
Two people, beautiful people that stumbled upon a fate that each other was afraid of.

Was he strong enough to be the man she knew could fly if he tried?
Was she fragile enough to let the rushing feels of love and true beauty he saw in her consume her?

Oh the haunting story--Can you find the answer to what happened?
Did they live happily ever after?

I pity the stranger that would stumble upon that box.

Is the answer to us in the box in his garage?

It's not worth trying to wonder, guess, or even ponder that question. If there is a part of our lives that we could erase for all the RIGHT reasons, it would be then.

That damn box is proof that before there were just ashes was a raging inferno inside of me!

How can such a small box hold a train, hotel balconies and all the sweet music we shared?

One day I want to sit down and swim around in that box.
I want to remember the time we drove up to the lake just to jump in like a scene from a stupid movie.

I wonder if I would find the sand from the beach in San Fransisco when we went to the museum and took a side trip to view the pacific coast?

Perhaps the time we packed up our bags and went camping? I still have the air mattresses we floated on that quiet lake.

I would be foolish to think I wouldn't find a part of a Cucina in Oregon placed somewhere in that box.

There has to be pictures of us smiling. A journal of our journey in each other's own writing.

How do I know so much about the box in the garage?

Because I have one too.

For now, mine is sealed up and only thought about on nights like this...when I can hear his train.