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The Box

The Box

– Nonfiction by Dianne Apter –

Homemade Insanity

Fall

The bathroom medicine cabinet—It has been three weeks. This will be the easiest I think. It isn’t. I can’t stop the mist in my eyes as I toss everyday medicines left over from normal ailments, the healthy days, the pre-cancer days. Ear drops, allergy pills, multi-vitamins go in the trash. I’m finished. That’s enough for today.

The dresser—Underwear and socks, neckties, shirts, sports jackets and jeans are stuffed in bags for the Salvation Army. The wrist watch, running shoes, bottle of after-shave, raggedy flannel shirt, University of Maryland T-shirt, and green sweater go in a different box. The “I have to save this part of him” box.

Winter

The hall closet—The passage of time. Jackets, boots, hats, gloves are piercing reminders of his days of vigor. My heart beats faster and my stomach turns over and I think of the snow he won’t shovel, the Thanksgiving dinners he won’t eat, the Christmas concerts at the children’s schools he won’t hear. Everything will go, except the gloves that will go into the box.

The books—I am about to toss all the back issues of Sports Illustrated. “That’s history, Mom.” The kids prevail. History will be saved, bound with string, and carried to the garage. Four boxes of books wait by the door ready for their trip to the library for donation. Second thoughts: I rip open the top carton and remove Zen and The Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and Catch 22. With reverence I rescue The Great Bicycle Expedition. That one was our find in the dusty used book store we all loved. I am back at that last summer, at the beach house, hearing our laughter at the antics of that cockamamie family, free-wheeling through Europe. All four of us on the bed as he reads a chapter a night. Me taking over the ritual when he was too weak. The book that was never finished. Into the box.

Summer

His office—Finally, the courage to enter his sacred space at home. It feels like I am trespassing. I start with desk drawers. Saved mementos I didn’t know were there. “I luv you daddy”, father’s day cards, plaster of Paris hand prints, art work on tattered paper, birthday and anniversary cards. The last anniversary card: “To my darling…I will love you forever.” Then I find six journals, some in school composition books and some hand-written on yellow legal pads. I read them. Six journals sharing dark thoughts in troubled times. Words never shared. Thoughts unknown to me. Insecurity, self-doubting, and sadness. I hate myself for not realizing, for not listening better, for being wrapped in my own daily living, for not being a better wife. These tokens of love and despair go into the box.

The Box

The children now have children of their own. My life has taken turns I never could have imagined. The Sports Illustrated were nibbled by mice and tossed out. The raggedy flannel shirt, the wrist watch, and the handmade gifts are still there. As are those journals. The books have all been donated. Except, The Great Bicycle Adventure. I keep thinking I should give the kids that one to read to their children but I don’t. The relics that remain. The box is smaller. The box I won’t let go of.

About the Author – Dianne Apter

Dianne Apter

Dianne Apter turned to creative nonfiction memoir after writing professionally for academic publications. Her work weaves through subjects as diverse as growing up during “the wonder years” of the fifties, unique travel adventures, and stories of her own family. This essay, The Box, is one of several she has written that focuses on the year following the death of her young husband. Dianne has published in several on-line journals and was a finalist in the Women On Writing essay contest. Check her out at http://dianneapter.com

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