………….

I watched intently as she opened the box. A part of me yearned to know what that felt like. I wanted to feel the nostalgia she felt as she removed each item, the tenderness of touching, a memory.

Her wonderment was partly the memories, but also the realisation that her mother had the foresight, the fondness, to keep each item.  A reminder of the familial bond that remained in the background of their complicated history.

The subtle sepia glow in the dimly lit room, mixed with warm mellow piano tones, added an emotive ambience.I felt a deep sense of loss, a gnawing sadness.

It was just a scene from a film, a fictitious portrayal, but real enough that I had mentally started to unpack my own complicated story.

It was also an unpleasant reminder of the box that sat collecting dust in my attic. Delivered by courier the day after she died. I refused to sign for it, but the driver left it anyway. It sat on the porch for months. Eventually my partner moved it to the attic, insisting that one day I might want to open it.

I knew that day would never come, I had no desire to sift through the contents of what could only expose a darkness that I had no desire to revisit.