It's Time

 There's a box by my door.

It's been there for three years.

Dad keeps telling me that it's okay, that he knows it's hard but he'll be there for me. But I know that soon enough, he won't be there for me. Not because he doesn't want to, because he can't. Because at some point, I'll be alone. Once Dad dies, I'll be all alone, and that's not far away. We celebrated his 87th birthday two Fridays ago. And he's already going senile.

I know at some point, I'll have to announce the presence of that box by my bedroom door. At some point, it will be too hard to pretend it doesn't exist, even if I wish it didn't. So I decided last night that today, I'll finally fill that box up.

Well, now it's today. And I'm regretting that goddamn rash decision last night more and more.

At 8:30 on the dot, Dad makes his regular Saturday morning call. I've come to realise over time that while Dad knows how hard it is for me to acknowledge that box, it's somehow not as hard for him. Or maybe that's just because he doesn't remember anymore. He still thinks she's alive.

I'd give anything to not remember Mom's death.

"Hey, Amanda!" How the hell is his voice so cheerful on a Saturday morning? Mine never sounds right until I've had my regular early-morning dose of coffee.

"... Dad, it's Livvy, not Amanda." Goddamn it, he's got my name wrong again. I suppose it's part of the 87-year-old package to constantly confuse your 48-year-old daughter's name with your late mother-in-law's name. Even though it sounds crazy out loud, Dad somehow always confuses my name with my Gramma Amanda's name. She's been dead for twenty-seven years now.

Even though she died twenty-four years before her daughter, Mom's death is still a lot harder to think about.

"Ahhh, Livvy! Lovely to talk to you, old girl! How's Amanda doing? Is she well? Is Char taking good care of her?" Char. Mom.

No. No. I'm not ready. He's not ready.

"G-g-gramma's fine." My breathing is heavy. I drown out the noise around me without meaning to. I can't do it, not yet. Just as I can't tell him that Gramma Amanda is dead, I can't tell him that Mom is dead either. He'll break down.

For the past month on our Saturday morning calls, Dad's been less... aware of certain events. In simpler terms, he's gone loopy. He hasn't mentioned the box once, even though that was what caused our Saturday calls to start in the first place. He doesn't remember that Mom died. Three years ago. He doesn't remember that Gramma died. Twenty-four years ago. He keeps either calling me 'Amanda' or asking how Gramma Amanda is.

I can't go right out and tell him that Gramma's dead. I just can't bear to hear the anguished wail that will tear from him, let alone how he'll react if I tell him that Mom's dead too. If I reacted that strongly, who knows what my senile 87-year-old dad will do?

I can't bear to hear him upset, not when I'm still suffering from the memories of Mom that haunt me every day.

"Oh, fantastic. And how're you doing, my darling?"

"Good..." I'm not ready. I can't do it. I'm not ready. I can't do it.

"Say hi to Char for me! Tell her I'll come and visit as soon as I can. Damn this business trip, am I right?"

The last time Dad went on a business trip was when I was fourteen, and Mom was still alive. We all still lived together then. I left for college at eighteen, and after Mom died, Dad left his and Mom's old house for a new house in Florida. But for some reason, he thinks that Mom and Gramma Amanda are still alive and live with me in my California apartment, even though I live alone, and that he's on a business trip, which is why he isn't with us.

"Mmm yeah, Dad. Can't wait for you to come back..." I hope he doesn't hear the definite quiver in my voice. "Bye, Dad. Love you." And I hang up, staring, dazed, out the window.

I have nothing better to do. And I can't put it off any longer. I know it's time. Mom would have wanted me to do this. She would have ruffled my hair and whispered, "My brave little Livvy." Except, if she was alive, I wouldn't have to be brave. If she was alive, everything would be so much easier. And happier. But sometimes in life, you can't always get the easy way out.

And not everything is happy.

So I walk towards my bedroom door. And for the first time in three whole years, I lift the box next to it.

It's lighter than I expected. I easily lift it and enter my bedroom, kicking open the door. As always, my room is a mess, so I cram some dirty clothes under my bed and shift books off the top of my comforter to make room for the box.

I already know what's inside it, but my heart still clenches as I read the words printed in Mom's neat handwriting on the side of the box: LIVVY'S CLOTHES -- FOR DONATION.

Tears snake down my face as I bury my head in my pillow. I know I'm not ready to open this box yet. But I also know I'll never be ready. Some things are just too hard, and some wounds cut too deep. But to truly be strong, you have to overcome the harder things in life. Like opening a box from your childhood that's like a doorway to the past, a better past when your mom was alive and your dad wasn't off his rocker and everything was just fine.

So I grab a pair of scissors from my desk and slice the brown packing tape on the top of the box. The shhhikkk sound of the tape cutting through startles me, even though I was the one who cut it.

Inside the box is a one-way ticket to a trip down memory lane.

I pick up the first clothing item in the box. It's a flowered blue dress that has ruffly white lace around the cuffs. And all of a sudden, the memories of the dress come rushing back to me.

"Peekaboo!"

I giggled as my mom opened and shut her hands around her eyes. "Mommy, Mommy!" My pudgy hands reached out for her long, slender ones, and as our fingers intertwined, the smile across my face grew. "I wuv you, Mama." I looked up at my mom, fiddling with the lace on my dress. The dress we had bought together last week.

The love in her eyes was indescribable. She looked back at me, the smile spreading across her face. "I love you so much, Livvy. You're the greatest gift of all in my life."

My eyes are wet. I must have been crying, but I don't remember it. I'm staring at the dress with such intensity, willing for my mom to come back, though I know she never will and all I have left of her now are simply memories of a better past.

I dry my eyes and continue rummaging through the box. The next thing inside it is a pair of sweatpants so tiny it's hard to imagine anyone small enough to wear them. But I was, once. I wore these very sweatpants, back when I had my mom and the world hadn't turned upside-down.

"Char, I'm going to go to Home Depot. Will you stay with Livvy?"

"Of course, Rob," my mom replied to my dad, cradling me in her arms. "Me and Liv are gonna do some shopping, aren't we Livvy?" She said the last part in a baby voice, laughing and tickling my chin.

I giggled. "Mommy, shop, Mommy, shop!"

"Okay, my darling, let's go. See you in a bit, Rob," she added to my dad. She carried me in my arms and looked at me, her eyes dancing. "Mom may have got a bit excited and bought something for you already."

My mom lifted a Gap bag from the bench next to her and smiled at me. "Open it, Livvy."

So I did. Inside were a pair of sweatpants. They were black and fluffy and looked like they would fit me perfectly. "Thanks, Mommy!"

She laughed again. "My pleasure, darling."

This time I'm not crying. But my eyes still sting and my heart aches as I recall the memories sewn into the fabric of those sweatpants and I think about how lucky I was that time when I still had Mom and everything was fine.

Now she's gone, and I'll never get her back.

The next item in the box is a fluffy red parka lined with white fleece on the inside. I stare at the metal buttons and wait for another memory to whisk me away.

"Are you sure Tahoe isn't too cold for Livvy, Charlotte?" my dad asked my mom, tickling my toes. I laughed.

"Oh, nonsense, Rob." She smiled at him reassuringly. "Dressed right, she'll be perfectly fine, won't you, Liv-Liv?" My mom rubbed my head lovingly and I giggled again.

"Yes, but Char, she can't be dressed right. She has no winter clothes."

"Oh, Rob, you worry too much." She reached into her closet and pulled out a small red parka that looked fluffier than a teddy bear. Handing the parka to me, she told him, "She'll be fine. I'm always there for her."

I'm practically sobbing after this one, my head buried in the parka as if the mere piece of clothing itself could bring my mom back. But it's not just a mere piece of clothing.

Every single dress, T-shirt, skirt, pants, and coat inside this box is a memory. Every piece of fabric has endless thoughts and flurrying emotions inside it, packed tightly into the cotton and fleece and wool, ready to be let out when the time is right. Each piece of clothing mine, mine to keep and shift through my memories, mine, all mine.

But the writing on the box says FOR DONATION.

***

My neighbour Mackenna has three children: Lilly, Elsa, and Matt. Lilly is almost five, Elsa is three, and Matt is turning one in a couple months. I know that some of the clothes in the box will at least be useful for one of them.

And I know that it's time to let go of my box of memories.

I ring Mrs. Spencer's doorbell. My arms are wrapped tightly around my box. I never want to let it go, but I know I have to. It's time to pass these clothes onto someone else. I've outgrown them -- even if I haven't outgrown the memories hidden inside them.

Mackenna opens the door and peers out. "Livvy, hey! What's up?"

"Hi, Mackenna. Umm, I brought this box of clothes..." I reluctantly and slowly hold the box out to her. It's time to let go. "Maybe Lilly, Elsa, or Matt could use them. There's a lot in there. You can have it all." My hands are shaking, my nose stinging. But I know it's time.

Mackenna stares at me. "Livvy, are you sure? This is really nice of you, but I don't know... do you really want to let go of these?"

No matter how many of those clothes I give away, the memories inside them are locked away in my mind forever, and I know that. I can always remember Mom, even if I'll never get to touch her hand or kiss her cheek again. These memories are mine to keep forever.

"Yes," I tell her, smiling. "I want to let go."