Life in a Box

Today is one of those beautiful sunny days, you know... clear blue sky, a light dusting of snow on the ground with the distant scent of woodsmoke in the air.

My brother Terry comes down for a Sunday brunch, he carries with him two boxes, "The Boxes." We sat on the deck and have a smoke, (even though I quit cigarettes over a month ago) it seems fitting; Larry would have smoked I tell myself. We talk of different things as "the boxes" sit on a deck chair saying volumes in their silence. I come in the house and put on the bacon and hashbrowns. I look out, Terry is skimming the top of one box. I go out, I don't want him to be sad... we get a screwdriver to open a briefcase that holds what we find out is Larry's cards and letters that he has saved for years. Terry picks one up, makes a comment and I hear the sadness in his voice. "We'll do it after breakfast," I tell him.

Bacon, hashbrowns, and scrambled eggs are consumed together with a bit of light banter and a few cups of coffee. The dog looks longingly at the bacon so I give him some too, why waste it? Terry and I go back outside and to have a smoke; I refrain from another cigarette and pop a peice of nicorette in my mouth telling myself two cigarettes and a cigar were plenty, though somehow it didn't feel like enough... I pick up a box and bring it in on the living room floor and Terry follows with the second one. Terry has that look in his eyes, the one that is mirrored in my heart, "I don't know Anita, I don't know if I want to do this now," he says.

"Well at least take his pipes, and what about his belt?" I say. I start picking these things up and giving them to him rambling something. I want him to take something because I know that he probably won't look again, it's too hard for him I think, where as with my personality I have to look, not because I'm stronger or braver, simply because I don't know how not to look... I'm afraid of losing my memories of Larry, I'm afraid of losing anymore of him than I have to and maybe also guilt on my part... I really don't know.

I sit and look at the objects in the boxes. "Really one box would have held it all," I think in my head. A Garfield stuffed animal I bought him when he had his car accident, a couple belts, photos, keychains (Larry was obsessed with keychains and keys), a light for something, a book with notes scrawled in his large writing, letters and cards Larry had saved for years. I sat and read letters that people had wrote him after his accident, suprisingly some from our real father that told me a bit more about Dad—Larry hadn't mentioned them.

As I sat there with notes and birthday cards laying around me, the thought crossed my mind: "Is this it, all that it boils down too?" I felt sad, sad for myself, sad for Terry, sad for everyone that loved Larry and sad for Larry. It seems to me that Larry never had a fair shot at life, but I do know he made the best of it and always shared a laugh and anything else he could with people. He was a generous and loving man. I didn't know what to do with these emotions, something very softly said, "Write them down, share it," so that is what I've done. Larry's possessions may have ended up in a single box but the love, friendship, laughter, and generousity of him couldn't fit in a million boxes!

It will have been three years May 4th since Larry left us physically but in our hearts, he will never be gone and I've also learned that my love for him is as intact as it was when he was here, love lives on forever. I love you, Larry.