The Memory Box

I learned 4 years ago there is no safe way to open a Memory Box holding gems accumulated from the years age 5 to 18. You know the kind of box I mean. A sturdy repository where report cards, class photos, and participation ribbons for sporting events were deposited with the hope that, someday, going through the items would bring about warm and fuzzy memories of summer softball games and winter singing contests. In my case, it was a clear, non-descript plastic tote with a green lid that had not been tended to in nearly 10 years. The artifacts within had remained happily undisturbed until one moment in the middle of April 2020, when, in a desperate fit of boredom and nostalgia, I slid open the stubborn, creaking closet door, and removed the dust-covered box carefully from the top shelf of my office closet. You know the kind of shelf I mean. The obscure shelf in the obscure room responsible for holding seasonal door wreaths, a Christmas decoration gifted to you by your brother-in-law, and Memory Boxes.

               I settled onto the unforgiving floor of my home office, laying the Memory Box in front of me with uncomplicated anticipation. The green lid separated from the clear tote with a satisfying and pleasant click. Immediately visible were baseball cards deemed important and valuable enough at one time to wrap in plastic. Early retirement planning perhaps? Under that were the fabric letters for the letter jacket I stubbornly refused to purchase. How had I forgotten the season spent playing the Glockenspiel in marching band? Under the starched, untouched awards lay my old baby blanket, thread-bare but still smelling faintly of the love sewn into it over 35 years ago. After taking in the scent and feel of my frayed, dear friend, I set it gingerly to the side. And there it was. 

               The photo. Summer camp 1992. A cacophony of kids lumped around each other in pure, unrestrained joy. Maybe 10 kids total. All in brightly colored shirts and shorts. A bundle of seemingly random neon patterns and geometric shapes. You know the kind. It was the early 90s. Most of the kids exhibited bunny ears above their heads, placed in carefree jest by their nearest friend. All of us were in some state of uncontrolled laughter or silly pose, able to contort our bodies this way and that as pre-teens can do without a thought to the back and knee problems that lie ahead in an impossible future. We were standing in front of a maroon passenger van. You know the kind. The late 80s model family van with three rows of overstuffed cloth seats and a suspension so soft, the occasional stop to relieve bouts of motion sickness was inevitable.

               A wave of familiar nausea washed over me. It was the distinct form of nausea that comes only after consuming a small mountain of M&Ms in such a passenger van warmed to overheating by sweltering summer afternoon sunlight. Over the nausea lay the recognition of long-lost faces with long-lost names. Some of the names were recovered after a few moments spent carefully considering the eager, carefree faces in the photo. Some of the names leapt immediately to mind along with other memories of Church Youth Group drama skits and Church Basement sleepovers. All of the memories were fond and followed almost immediately by the striking recognition that this photo was taken in the Before Times. The Before Times that were comfortably enjoyed before my own Quiet Voice started telling me something was off with the seemingly idyllic lives we were leading in this beloved community. The Before Times preceded the chaotic whir of adolescent confusion, frontal lobe development, and deep depression that took hold and didn’t let go for some tortured and endless time. Before and After.

               A swell of sadness formed in my chest, finally solidifying itself into bone-shaking sobs. The only sound I could emit was inhuman and unrecognizable. The grief was so suddenly oppressive that I could not let out my tears until the guttural sounds had ceased. When I was finally able to weep, I wept for those kids in the photo who were let down by the adults in their lives, who may have also had the same gut feelings that not all was well but chose to ignore them anyway. I wept for the kids in the photo who, along with their families, would be bitterly exiled, through no fault of their own, from our beloved community in the wake of the unpleasantness to come. I wept for the kids in the photo who remained for too long in the beloved community as it splintered and broke into something unrecognizable. As they, too, broke and splintered into something unrecognizable.

               Long after the initial outpouring of lament subsided, I continued to study the photo, sending a wordless prayer into the unknown for each of the faces looking back up at me. Then, I tore the photo into several small pieces and lovingly placed the pieces into the paper bin next to my desk. I retrieved the dusty green lid, placed it over the clear container, then securely snapped the lid back in place. After unpeeling my aching legs off the floor, I stood up unsteadily. I picked up the Memory Box, now heavy with the past, and placed it back on the very top shelf of my often-forgotten office closet. In the very back corner. Securely behind the seasonal wreaths I begrudgingly placed on my front door when I felt like it and the Christmas decoration from the brother-in-law I will never understand. I then gripped the closet door handle and slid it closed. 

Only then, after carefully stowing the Memory Box, did it occur to me that I had not bothered to clear the dust off the green lid. My handprints and the brilliant memory of uncovering the photo would be etched in the thick layer of dust covering the box, waiting to greet me the next time I felt the urge to reminisce. I hovered near the door for a breath considering the work required to clean the box. I steeled myself and messaged my therapist.