Wednesday, October 08, 2008

I found the receipt from the post office from that day. It was in the right back pocket of my jeans. I'm not sure why it was there at that exact moment, outside of my wallet, so conveniently within reach as I removed my wallet, hearing the crinkling of paper within my hands, the smooth paper and the faded black letters that still read the time and place and destination.

I can remember exactly every item I placed into that flimsy cardboard box that day, and I remember the reason for each of those objects. There was a strange care about it all, a delicate surgery. Any stray movements, any inaccuracies, and I would find it all crumpling, flat-lining before my very fingertips. Even more so was the secrecy, hiding treasure from thirsty, prying eyes.

We talked frequently, she and I. The sun never set until we had our say, until I could close my eyes and could imagine her right there, right across from me. I had my ways of teasing her, but she always found a way to reciprocate, to reflect it back to me, to keep things alive. Professions of emotions and feelings thinly veiled behind sarcasm, but I meant every word. I smiled frequently.

She was afraid of aging, the passage of time. I never told her my fear. "Bears" was my answer.

And my heart leaped when the flimsy box finally left my hands, hopefully reaching its destination so many hundreds of miles away, just an attempt at extending my own being, reaching my hands out and hoping that they would stretch beyond these walls.

But things were never meant to last. All objects, however alive they might be, eventually wilt and decay. Age. Perhaps she had that one right.

Before I knew it, she was gone.

Before I knew it, my fear had come true.

Nothing was ever the same. Nothing ever will be the same.

I threw the old receipt into a trash bin. So many memories and emotions held within a single crumpled-up piece of paper.

But it's just another object.


iPear said...


Carl and Tasha said...