Boxes

There are two boxes in my attic.

It is so gloomy I can’t make out where the walls are, but the space around me speaks of vastness; my footsteps echo. There is a smell of old books and damp wool.

The first box is already open. It is so large I could fit sit inside it, if I chose to, and immensely heavy. Its dark wood is rough under my fingertips; each knot is a memory, reminders tied into a handkerchief. Peering in, I can’t see all the way to the bottom, deep and full as it is, but my fingers slide over the shine of its inner veneer, the honey-maple varnish which once glossed its outsides too. I know it well, but have seldom examined its contents. What should I look at first?

At the top, light and sharp-edged like crisp autumn leaves, are piles of Weapon Words. They are cruel and ugly and out of place. I don’t need to look at them, don’t need to remove any more splinters or barbs from my skin. Pushing them aside so that they clink against each other, metallic and discordant, I reach down further, pull out items at random. An amethyst necklace, cunningly slipped around my neck as I gazed into the grey Thames. Forgotten toothbrushes and shower gel, your place or mine?, the gradual communalisation of each other’s possessions as we came to possess each other. A reel of silken sunsets, thin as gauze and vivid as the juice we drank at brunch, long lazy polka-dot tablecloth mornings, our kitchen, our view, our little piece of heaven. Gentle hands, soft hair, laughing eyes. That teetering moment at the precipice of consciousness, the film fading into background noise, and the inexorable drift on a tide of cotton slumber. Sharp and smooth, strawberries warm in molten chocolate coats. Days when the golden city turned grey and oppressed us, and we drove to outrun the clouds, gasping for air. Pick up milk. Lonely socks seeking mates. Missed buses. The taste of sherbet on my tongue. Sultry Grecian nights, the salt tang of the azure sea, the buoying crunch of Hungarian snow. This bed ain’t big enough for the both of us. Laughter. What’s this? And this? Museums stations theatres pools parks bars cinemas beaches houses university zoos boats gardens galleries cars concerts shops planes restaurants, fanning out before me like postcards. I could spend a lifetime poring over each of these precious and insignificant things. Do you remember those mountains I fell in love with, folded over themselves like the pleats of a skirt? The lone hairpin wedged behind like the bathroom shelf like a tribute to tenants past?

There is a tiny velvet jewellery box with round edges, so tender-soft I can hardly bear to touch it for fear of sullying it in some way. Even you have only caught shy glimpses of it, you who once knew me better than I knew myself. When I ease it open, stroke the little satin cushion, a thread of minute sound escapes- the faint tolling of wedding bells, playing children’s summertime laughter. I cannot see them but I know they have your smile. I hold the box to my ear like a shell and close my eyes, the better to hear the sounds of things which never were, but which might have been.

Wound into tangles around everything is the scarlet thread of love-time, cut short by my own hand. Six and a half years, though not all spent physically together. A quarter of our lives. We were kids who guarded each other jealously and knew we were for keeps. We were best friends. We were lovers who improved and wounded and teased and healed each other, again and again and again. I suffered, you saved; I spoke, you softened. In our final incarnation, eight hundred miles away from each other, we were adults who realised that sometimes, despite love’s best efforts, and then its less-than-best efforts, life wins. This is the end of an era, our era, and it defies description. It is like dreaming of the sun on your face and waking up alone in the shade. Our time together has been too much, and it has not been enough. What can I say? Our life has been beyond compare.

I take out the weighty tomes of Wisdom and Knowledge, along with the bright bouquet of Good Wishes (redolent of pine needles, sun and fresh-cut grass). I do not touch the Dark Days. I smear the healing balm of Forgiveness over the jagged edges of my wounds, and dredge up as many Happy Memories as I can find. Soon the floor around me is cluttered with them. They glow, brave little lights, with varying degrees of strength; some like Christmas bulbs, others wavering candle flames, still others tiny glow-worm threads of silver-white, slightly warm to the touch. The air sparkles with a thousand tumbling pinprick stars, a shower of glittering moments.

Everything in the box is surrounded by the warm invisible presence of your love, familiar as an old jumper, and I ache to climb inside and bathe myself in it, to close the lid and hide myself away from the world, but that can never be. Not now. The absence of my own love casts a long shadow, a dark void.

I have taken what I need. Everything else must stay. Tears make dark rain-spots on the well-worn wooden lid. I run my fingers over the tarnished hinges I have come to know so well, and touch my lips to the line where the two halves join in a final gesture of farewell. The box is sealed for good. Even as I raise my head its outline seems to blur slightly, its edges becoming less distinct, fading into the shadows. Nonetheless, it will stay here forever, gathering a slow film of dust with the creeping years.

The second box is light as air and small enough to hold in my two hands. It is made of glass; my sorrowing face stares back at me from each of its smooth facets. When tapped, it sounds hollow. Gently I lift the shining lid. The box, pretty enough to hold a wealth of trinkets, is shallow and completely empty inside. For a moment I am desolate. What am I going to do now?

Without warning, a slant of winter light suddenly illuminates the attic. All at once I can see into hidden alcoves where forgotten things are tucked away; they have been waiting for this moment. I pick them out as my eyes adjust- a photograph of relatives I barely know, continents away; a book half-written, the narrative cut off mid-word, beside which lies an uncapped pen; cabinets all around me bursting with semi-formed, barely-expressed, shy half-dreams which shift between shades of iridescence, open drawers of secret wishes, neatly folded like filmy scarves. Be selfish, you said. I watch the dust motes drift over the scene like silent snow and realise I can have everything, I can take all I have gathered and stored in this place, use it to carve out and guide myself down my new path. The light soaks into everything, warms the wooden boards, bestows upon the room its clear and wholesome glow. It lingers on me, sears the poison of guilt from my soul, leaving only the cathartic pain of parting; the severance of two imperfect, loving, lovable beings.

With one last glance around the attic of my mind, I get to my feet, gather what I need and leave to start filling the box of my future.