The Shoebox

I stare at the chaos in front of me and clutch the shoebox tighter in my arms.

I’ll admit—I’ve pushed “cleanliness of my bedroom” to the back of my mind lately, right next to “homework” and “college applications.”

Heavy footsteps thump across the hallway and Dawn peeks her head into the room. “What’re you doing?” she asks, rubbing her bulging belly. She’s visiting for the weekend because she “misses us.” Yeah, right. Like Mom and Dad didn’t tell her to hop on the next plane as soon as she could. I know why she’s here.

I’m grateful, really. But she can’t know that, so I snap, “None of your business.”

“Sheesh. You’d think you were the one with a ten-pound weight on your bladder.”

I stick out my tongue and she laughs.

“Don’t forget—we’re leaving in half an hour.” She cocks her head and stares at me with those brown eyes, and maybe this is supposed to be a moment, but I just nod and wave her away. She shrugs and waddles out of the room.

Turning back toward the mayhem, I grab a black marker, some notecards, and tape from my desk before writing “Raven’s Time Capsule” across the top of the shoebox.

Step one: the closet. 

Summer dresses and faded t-shirts hang on the bars. The hamper’s full of sweaters that point toward the leaves changing colors. Shoes litter the ground and stacks of books line the shelves at the top. 

I stand on my tiptoes to glance through the jumble of ridiculous vampire romances and high school dramas. I almost move on before thin books with yellow pages catch my eye: The Chronicles of Narnia.

A warmth flows through me as I remember the afternoons spent curled under the big cottonwood tree in the front yard, reading the daylight away. Once a month, Mom set up a tent filled with lanterns and squishy pillows, and I would read until the stars disappeared with the glow of the morning sun. 

None of my friend’s parents let them stay up that late.

Sometimes, Mom even came out in the morning with a cup of hot chocolate, and we’d rave about the heroes and rant about the villains.

The books are the first items in the shoebox. I scribble on a notecard and tape it inside the cover of the first book.

“For when you’re bored.”

Step two: the trunk.

It’s huge and stained amber, with my name painted on the front in block letters. Dad even brushed on little ravens flying in the corners. He built the trunk as soon as I started crawling around, and I’ve spent the years stuffing it with the echoes of my childhood: the turkey handprint paintings, the dusty photo albums, the old school projects I worked too hard on to throw away.

The trunk creaks as I push the lid open and rummage around. After a few minutes of picking up items and dropping them unceremoniously back into the mess, my fingers wrap around something small and soft: Ellie, the stuffed elephant Dad gave to me not long after he built the trunk.

One of her eyes dangles by a thread, and her tusks hangs crooked after years of being crushed under childhood tokens.

Ellie is the second item in the shoebox, and I stick another note on top of her.

“For when you’re lonely.”

Step three: under the bed. 

I tense as I kneel on the carpet and peek under, wishing to all the powers of the universe that a spider won’t come scuttling toward me, and they must've heard because there’s only a couple of dusty boxes that greet me. I pull forward the one filled with a sea of photographs.

My photo journal box, as I used to call it.

I don’t have to look far—the photo I’m looking for is on the top left: me and Dawn on the summit of our favorite peak to climb, Mt. Sneffels. Her arm hangs around my shoulders and her head tilts down to touch mine.

It’s a good picture. But I turn it over to the real treasure.

Sister. Best friend. Confidant. Shoulder to cry on. Karaoke partner. 

After I printed the photo a few years ago, I scrawled all the words I felt about Dawn on the back. That started my photo journal, and the box holds over a hundred photos now. I've written on the back of each one.

The photo with Dawn has the smallest handwriting to fit the most words.

My eyes burn as I read through them, and—before I completely lose it—I tape another notecard on top of the photograph.

“For when you’re curious.”

There. The books, the animal, the picture. I look around my room and sigh. So much junk.

Not in the box, though. That can't be junk. That’s me.

The fourth and final item I leave in the shoebox is one more note.

“I’m sorry you won’t get to meet your aunt, baby girl. But hopefully a bit of her heart is enough.”

I carefully fold the paper into a small triangle and place it on top of all the items before checking my watch.

Right on time.

“Mom and Dad are in the car, Raven. You ready?” calls Dawn from downstairs.

Looking at the box on the bed, I wipe my eyes and hurry to the front door. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I guess,” I say to Dawn, who’s slipping on her coat.

She suddenly walks forward and wraps her arms around me. I feel a small kick as her stomach presses against mine, and I jump back in surprise.

Dawn laughs. “Looks like baby girl likes you.”

I grin. Dawn puts her arm across my shoulders and steers me out the door.

“Let’s go kick cancer’s ass,” she says, and though the odds make my heart falter, I think of that small kick, and conversations with Mom about Narnia, and Dad tucking Ellie into bed with me all those years ago, and Dawn’s arm hugging me to her side….

The shoebox is ready. But I’m not giving up just yet.