The Blue Box

Eighteen years ago I found a blue shoebox and started filling it with love notes.

Handwritten notes, on lined notebook paper, eagerly passed in the halls between classes.

The petals from a dozen red roses were sprinkled in the blue box, along with deflated balloons and florist cards.

Movie ticket stubs.

Ride coupons from the County Fair.

A menu from a fancy restaurant.

The other half of the pair of earrings he wore to Prom.

Lists of baby names, with our favorites starred.

An engagement ring.

Letters from Boot Camp.

Wedding rings that were never worn.

I wanted her to know he meant something to me. I wanted her to know she was created out of love, as much as one knows what love is at fifteen. I wanted her to know that we were a family once, all those years ago.

That blue shoebox has traveled the country with me, from the East coast to the West and back again. The flowered wrapping paper I had covered it in years ago finally ripped to shreds, leaving just the plain blue cardboard showing.

She'll be eighteen in January.

Her father initiated contact with her in the last year, so there's been some closure. It was time.

Today the blue box came out from under my bed and I brought it to the couch. I pored over the letters, remembering. I found myself on the verge of tears a number of times. He broke my heart.

When I felt ready I handed the blue box to her, with tears in my eyes. She gave me a hug and if I'm not crazy, I think she held me a little tighter than she usually does.

The blue box is a big deal.

For both of us.