Elise took an old shoe box from her closet. She clutched the box to her chest as she sat at the edge of her bed. Here and there, the little everyday things were scattered.
There was an old greeting card. She slowly opened the card and through tear-filled eyes read it. "Get well soon, my love" it said. She folded the card and put it in the box. Then she reached out for a piece of ribbon, attached to a small glass heart. "Don't break my heart!", he had said when he gave it to her after winning it in an amusement park. She had laughed, but she wore the necklace all through out the night until the clasp broke on their way home. The heart didn't break then, she thought. She had caught it in time. She laid it next to the card. This was followed by torn theater tickets to a play that she had dragged him to, kicking and screaming. He had slept all the way through it and she had never taken him to another play ever again. She laughed softly as the scene when he had snored through a quiet part of the play ran through her mind.
So many little things: a little test tube with a cigarette and a match with the words 'BREAK GLASS IN CASE OF EMERGENCY' that he had given her when she decided to stop smoking. A couple of white seashells they picked up on a walk on the beach, along with a necklace of wooden beads. A piece of cloth that was a sample for a dress for a very formal party that they attended. Little things that were not worth anything that had meant everything to her.
She began to think of their time together, those loving words that he had said, the tender moments when they were alone. As she sat there staring at nothing, she could almost feel her heart break all over again. How many times had he said "I love you?" How many times did he really mean it?! She angrily wiped away the tears from her eyes.
I can't put THOSE in the box now, can I?
She started to blindly throw things in, not even caring what they were; she just wanted to get rid of it, all of it. Then she found herself holding a small figurine of a sleeping cat. She had always wanted one, and he gave her the toy to "hold you over until we can get you a real one." A dozen or so pictures of them laughing, making funny faces, holding each other, and in one picture that made her tears fall again, sharing a soft kiss. Their friends had heckled them into that picture. She had been shy about it, but still willing anyway. At first he had been adamant in saying no, but seeing that she her crestfallen expression at his refusal, he had given in. She turned the picture over and put it right side down in the box.
He must have meant it, when he told me he loved me he must have meant it at least once.
She clung to that thought as she went on. She could not have been so blind, could she? So stupid? She stared at the box that was almost full.
A box of memories.
There were other things in it now that she hadn't even noticed she put in - a flyer-menu from their favorite restaurant, parking receipts, an old phone book, even a small container of airsoft pellets from the time he took her to one of his "war games." Elise ended up with the other team, and to win he had shot her. She had sulked on the way home, and he asked her what was wrong. "YOU SHOT ME!", she screamed. "It was just a game," he explained.
It had all been a game in the end.
More cards. "Happy Anniversary", but she had forgotten the last time they had made each other happy. A piece of paper where his flight details had been written down, along with whatever he needed to bring along and the mundane details of travel expenses.
A postcard saying: "wish you were here."
But he didn't really wish she was, did he?
She threw more things in, not looking, not remembering. She was switching from anger, to hate, to love, to sorrow from one movement to the next. Crying, laughing, smiling in nostalgic remembrance. A madwoman bent on forgetting and letting go while hanging on to every single memory.
The box was brimming now.
Is that it? Was that all there was?
The last thing she put in the box was an invitation. Please be with us on this special day. The invitation announced the Christening of his son.
How could that be all of it? What about the text messages that became less frequent? Shorter? The "I love you's" that were no longer there? The letters that never came? Or that final call when he told me that he found someone else? WHERE DO I PUT THAT!?
She slowly ran her fingers along the picture of the child on the invitation, half-heartedly imagining how different the child would have looked if he had been her son, too. The invitation was not in her name - he had given her at least that much.
She stared at the box.
A box of memories. A box of love. A box of lies.
Elise closed the box - a simple act that was both final and painful. She got up from her bed, the last of her tears gone now, her heart on the mend, with a shoe box in her arms and walked on towards her new life.