Boxes
by Carmen H Gray
I sifted through old things in boxes today
A positive pregnancy test
A dress she wore when she was 6
Her port from the chemotherapy
Letters upon letters: “you will kick cancer’s ass”
“This sea glass reflects a light in you”
“Can I please have a bunny, mom? I want a goddamn bunny! I promise I’ll take care of it”
All things that came to pass after all
Her gratitude in the midst of hell
The list of reasons why her nurses and doctors were the kindest souls she ever knew
Wigs she wore maybe once, yet tenderly kept
Hot tears welled for all of the times I held them in
They must have been compartmentalized
Just like those things
Folded neatly to be stored and perused again
When time and good health bestowed
A moment to remember those symbolic totems
On a rainy Sunday in May
Years later
Isn’t it funny how full and empty
A cycle moves the memories
Of the brevity captured
In boxes
Monarca Rising 