The Box

I have this tattered box, filled with her old things. Unfinished cards, meant to last forever, addressed to my brothers. Finished cards, filled with hope from a Brownie Troop. Pamphlets preaching hope despite the known end ("Talking with Your Kids About Funerals"). Lotions, powder, and cremes... all smelling vaguely like her but vaguely of death. A hairbrush with a few of her hairs still snagged in its teeth. I'm holding on to this the most and in some desperate hope that maybe there will be a way to bring her back or that it will be the only way for her to find and keep an eye on me. This tattered box and its contents are all I have left of her. Slowly slowly slowly my memories are fading.