She didn’t want to open it. She didn’t want to allow herself to feel the things that she’d kept inside for so long, and she knew, that by opening the box, she would bring to the surface everything she had forced down for the last four years. She understood she had to; if anything, curiosity alone would get the better of her eventually. The knowledge of its existence was enough to occupy her thoughts, let alone its contents. It sat there in her lap, like an anchor on an already sinking ship. It tethered her to the memories and kept her there. She was unable to swim away.
Overall, the memories were fond; they came to her more tenderly than she thought they could. However, they were tainted. Tainted with an ache, a longing, to reclaim those four years, to rewind the tape and fix all the broken film. She would leave out all the hospital visits, all the grave faces, and all the sideways glances. She would cut out the shuffling feet, the uneasy coughs, and plastered smiles, and she would stitch it all back together again into a fresh new tape. One she could play from the very beginning and watch all the way through without a single regret. There would be echoing laughs and clumsy conversations, lessons and bashful grins, frustrations, and family. And her. There would be no need for doctors. There would be need for tears because there is always need for tears, but no sorrow, no guilt and no regret. For her mother would stay, and the only thing left of her mother would not be a small, battered useless little box. The box wouldn’t be filled in advance of a pre-predicted end point. Instead, it wouldn’t be filled at all, the contents would not need to be gift wrapped, she could be given whatever it was in person. She wouldn’t need her memories, for she would have her mother.
She picked up the box off her lap and stood up, placing it back on the floor. She turned her back, walked to the door and touched her fingertips to the handle. Then she spun round, took a couple paces back and sat down on the carpet. She found herself in the same position she was in thirty seconds ago, and in no less conflict about what to do. The longer she waited, the more restless she got, and the bigger the box seemed to grow. She assumed the contents were trivial, her mother wasn’t the sentimental type, she was vaguely surprised that her mother had left her anything at all. She hadn’t left much behind, only the grief that came from the wake of her passing.
In the end it had been peaceful. It was almost a relief after so many years of fighting, her mother gave in quietly, and was allowed to pass with barely a murmur. The cancer was kind in that sense, it accepted a silent victory. The aftermath, however, was not peaceful. There was a hollow war that raged within all those left behind, and it ate at them until they could no longer breathe.
She had to, she had to, she had to, she had to, she had to.
She didn’t want to open it, but she did.
