Just A Box.
"Slow down there, Billy Bob. I'm not done yet. What happened with him? Is he still around? If not, why do you keep a box of his things? Did he die? Is that why?"
That was the first time Mick asked about the box, and though it was months and months ago at this point each time he shoved past it to dig through the hall closet, an annoyed gaze seemed to linger. It was just a box. Crammed full of old sweatshirts that reeked of Old Spice deodorant and Axe body spray. A dried-up flower, one of the only things he ever bought her, and it wasn’t purchased at all. It was plucked from the side of the road as he walked to her house higher than a kite, either way he thought of her. A blue baby blanket he picked out days after she showed him the test, he swore it would be a little boy. He told her to toss it after the ultrasound tech told them they’d be having a little girl, so she did right into his box. Finally, there was a photo, one of the only ones that she had of the father-daughter duo who were no more than strangers. A six-pound four-ounce little girl in a lanky young man’s arms. He looked terrified of her, as he should’ve been. She understood why he would glare at the box as if the harder he squinted the more likely it would combust into flames. Who wanted to see a box filled with your significant other’s ex-boyfriend’s things filled to the brim. She wasn’t keeping it because she refused to let go, she kept it to be reminded why she would never go back. A box full of reminders of all she had endured, and all she had left to show of it. He could light it on fire in the backyard tomorrow, it was just a box to her now.