The box

There is a box that hides under numerous beds, is hidden in countless closets, is tucked away in random drawers, or even stored in old dusty attics; never to be tossed away with the garbage or sold at a garage sale or given away to a close relative, but always kept, no matter how many years go by, how many seasons fade, or how many lovers are lost. It remains constant; one never having the courage to dispose of it properly.

It is almost always sealed tightly, unless for those rare occasions when items are added to its contents by quickly slipping them inside and then hastily replacing the cover. The only other time it is opened is when the owner feels glutton for punishment; when they feel that the contents inside no longer have any power over them; that the memories induced by that box will no longer haunt them. Yet, when the contents are rediscovered- the happiness, the love, the joy, the pain, the sadness and the anger all come flooding back in a muddled mess.

So why do we keep this box hidden away day after day? This box which holds the good and the bad of all our failed relationships? articles of clothing, letters, movie tickets, pictures, hotel room keys; any trinket or documentation of something special or drastic?
Why no throw it all away? Why not empty its contents and facilitate that box for something useful? Why torture ourselves with the sights and smells of the past?

And for those of us who never get rid of the torturous thing- does that mean we are never able to really move on?