She called and told me about all of the fun you were having. She described the art galleries, the friends, the laughter. That time you all wandered together in the dimly lit streets and life was quiet and beautiful. And in that instant I knew her, she was lovely. She spoke to me like a dear friend just catching up while she had a few minutes before rushing off to the next awe-inspiring agenda. She made me feel like I was a part of it all. And at the same time she showed how much I was not a part of it.
I’m sitting on a box bursting at the seams. Holding down the cover to beautiful contents that reveal the answer. I have never seen inside but I have felt the energy, the resting momentum. It is waiting to be opened to the world. Ready to soar like a thick golden light that passes by in the consistency of molasses floating in the air. And when the time comes, I will be ready to jump into the path and spin with arms and fingers spread wide. And this light will wrap around me like I remember your arms holding me. Lift me like your arms until there is no earth, there is no direction, and there is no turning back.
Until then, I am sitting on the leather casing of this box, running my fingers across the worn edges and catching my fingernails on the cracks and tears. Sometimes I lay across the top, and the surface is just large enough to hold me if I curl my knees to my chest. My cheek rests on the darkened surface. I feel all of the comfort in the world from this oh so well known encasement to riches that have been growing inside. I live for the moments I wake from sleep from the slow sensation of the worn leather across my cheek as my lips form a smile.
One day though, she will call me and she will not tell me about your life adventures. Instead she will say, “Tonya, you need to know that this box is not yours. I let you believe it for so long, but I need it back now.”
I will lift myself up as I begin to grasp this realization. On the way, my sleeve becomes snagged on a loose nail, tearing the thin fabric and leaving faint white scratch mark that will quickly disappear. I watch the mark fade, and think, “Is that all? Not even a scar to take with me in defeat?”
I finally see the dingy and dark room around me. Kneeling atop the box, I am colder now, and my bony knees fight against the hard surface that felt so soft before. I have the sudden urge to leap as far as I can. At the same time I have the urge to pry open the box and take what is inside before she has the chance to claim it.
I feel the all too distinct pangs of regret, jealousy, loss. They present themselves in my chest in sequence, and repeat. By this time I have jumped down to the floor, both of my thumbs prying into the crease of the cover. I press my lips against that crease and whisper, “What do I do? What do I do?”
I receive no answer. So I wait.
I am still waiting.
