half-breath
I slipped silently from the room: careful not to add or detract from the present discussion. I softly eased the door closed, holding the knob until the door rested in the jam. I then slowly released the latch, allowing the click to go entirely unnoticed by the others.I knelt down on the floor, my knees cracked on the hard wood. I reached under the bed but I couldn’t find it. I flipped up the bed skirt, which revealed to me only darkness and vague shapes, or impressions of shapes. I moved to my stomach so that I could add more length to my reach. I know that I shoved it right here. My fingers grazed the smooth box. A smile flickered around my face. I tipped the corner enough to get a firm grip and pull that box from its hiding place.
It had been too long since I had recovered my treasure. I sat back on my heels admiring its polished features for a moment. The box was simple and smooth. A deep mahogany. It was soft to touch. I ran my hand across the lid removing a fine powder of dust, revealing its rich color. The latch and lock on the front were also plain but strong. The key was hidden in a small notch at the back of the box; my fingers found it without my eyes.
This box contains the special things, my gifts to them, those that I love. These gifts are to be delivered on the day that I die. It’s simple really. Yet I know that they will treasure the box and its contents as I do. Letters calligraphied, detailing all that I long to say but for which I cannot find the words. Embossed with good intent. Colored with love. Each card contains a moment, perfectly described, perfectly preserved for their memory, and for mine. Each moment holds a wish, a thought, a prayer unuttered in this life, withheld from one so dear. Each wish and thought and prayer are told completely with all honesty and spoken in love. This is not all that I ever wanted to say rather it is all that I wanted them to know. When my life is ended this box holds my final words. You must know how I loved you. These cards are stacked and delicately wrapped with red ribbon. The ribbons are their names. To: Mom. To: Dad. To: Christine. To: Whitney. To: Skyler. To: Scot. To: Spencer. To: Simon. To: Jenny. To: Katy. To: Amy. To: Amanda. To: Kim. To: Lauren. To: Nikki. To: Joy. To: Andrew. To: Jeremiah. To: William. To: Jordan
I inscribe the next card, bundle it with the others, tucked beneath its ribbon. Return the box to hiding. I slip back into my seat unnoticed, I barely breathe.
"Trisha, did you want to say something?"
"No."
"You did that half-breath thing, like you had something to say."
I shake my head.
"You sure?"
I move the topic along, all the while thinking of the cards, so carefully sorted, so painstakingly written, so purposefully addressed, that will never be delivered. Because I catch my breath. Because I withhold my thoughts. Because there is no box.
posted by Trisha @ 11:20 PM
