Each morning, out of the corner of my left eye, the box steals my attention, just for a moment. I glance back to the woman in the mirror and begin the ritual called the start of my day. Shades of red, dabs of matte, outlines of eyes, a misting of the gold locks complete the routine of being presentable.
I rise naked to determine my wardrobe next. The box is again to the left, at my feet. About three feet of space that holds my youthful indiscretions, mostly joys but some admonitions. All my sentimental worthlessness squirreled away, hidden from the world, backed into the closet.
This box, my legacy of intimacies and sheltered private moments, up until my very end, will absorb more recordings of my life. I’ve said it’s my world to escape to when all I’ve got is seclusion and disease, propelling me towards the next phase of this journey. At my end, wanting to recapture the feels by dallying in the dull personal but nostalgic days of my existence. I want to revel one last time in my past, then let it all burn.
My dear friend balked when I told him my plan. He said the world should know of the events which shaped the woman the rest of the world sees. But it’s private, I said. Of course, he nodded, but it’s all the special in you. It’s the why of how you came to be. It’s the treasures kept hidden that deserve to live beyond your death.
I’ve decided to strike a deal with that dear friend. I will stick to my plan of charring all of what remains of my past should he die before me. But if I leave this planet and he’s alive, it’s my parting gift to him. May it bring him some joy to get to know the different stages of the girl I was before our paths crossed and intertwined. I’ll bet he’ll giggle, then cry.
I Write Her 