The Box

We all have one. The box. The manilla envelope. The file. The duffle bag. The place we keep our secrets. Our past lives, hidden from who we are today. We tell our friends, look how far I've come, see how I've grown. But in the back of our closets, hidden behind the bag of gift bags and wrapping paper or on the top shelf behind our sweaters, lies the box. Why do we hold onto it? Just the other day I was reaching up for my Franco Sarto "sex shoes" I call them, since I never wear them except when I really, really like a guy, and there it was, the box of my relationships past. I knew what lay inside that box. old love letters, Valentine's Day cards, a class ring, pictures, small trinkets won at the arcade, and teeny tiny ziploc bags of sand. Yes, sand. It was the equivalent of the great American novel of failed relationships. And even though I was late to the next potentially great love affair, I sat down on my closet floor and slowly removed the lid. On top were pictures from Autumn, my last great romance. Underneath was a birthday card with a sweet message, and peeking out from under the card was a compatibility test, taken at Old Orchard Beach at the arcade with the electronic fortune tellers. And so on and so forth. An archeological dig of love relegated to a box covered in pictures and poems. And I I thought to myself how utterly teen angst driven the entire scenario would be if played out on the silver screen. With that, I closed the box, slipped on the heels and clicked myself right out the door and into the arms of the next Mr. Right. The box may have been closed, but the question in my head was still the same as it had been ten years ago...When will I get to stop adding to it?