[TM] 302. Collection (application piece)
Pushed to the furthest corner on the highest shelf--so high she has to use a footstool herself to reach it should the mood strike, though she rarely indulges these days--in the back of her closet, there is a wooden box. Should anyone dare to brave the depths of the closet and climb and twist and push aside hat boxes and neatly stacked scarves in a basket to find the box and take it down without her permission, it's contents are further hoarded under a tight lock. The key rests in another box, tucked into a drawer in her dresser, with other keys, some of them unique looking, others ordinary, none of them marked. She knows each one of any importance--the others have long since ceased to matter--but an intruder would have to search through dozens to find the one that fit the lock, or descend lower from closet rummaging to lock picking.
After so much caution, so much secrecy, the box, once open, would likely disappoint some, and surprise others.
No jewels, no money, no bonds or stocks, or anything of any monetary value rest inside. It's a chest of papers and pictures and odds and ends. A girl laughs out from this one, nestled snugly against a man with old eyes in a young face whose lips are curved in a pleased smile. The two of them lounge at a table, the Eiffel tower rising behind them, a large young black man seated beside them, smiling just as brightly, teeth flashing white at the camera. A dried rose tied to a scrap of elasticized lace still seems to hold a whisper of perfume and dreams of a night of what might have beens. There are letters tied together with a ribbon of sentiment those most likely to find them would not dream either of the authors capable of penning, but the words stand stark against the paper that's soft from the time her fingers ran over it, holding it close as if the sender were encompassed inside of it, instead of gone, proving the doubters wrong.
She wants the doubters to doubt, most days. Better they see the shell she's built, better they don't guess, better to be strong. Sentiment gets you nowhere, after all, and nothing but hurt, and if her own scarred heart weren't proof enough of that, all she needs to do is look at her youngest son to be reminded of it. So the box stays tucked in the furthest corner on the highest shelf--so high she has to use a footstool herself to reach it should the mood strike--and inside the box, locked away from the prying eyes of those that might question the choices she's made and those that were made for her, are her memories, her heart, and her soul.
There's no place for them out in the world.
After so much caution, so much secrecy, the box, once open, would likely disappoint some, and surprise others.
No jewels, no money, no bonds or stocks, or anything of any monetary value rest inside. It's a chest of papers and pictures and odds and ends. A girl laughs out from this one, nestled snugly against a man with old eyes in a young face whose lips are curved in a pleased smile. The two of them lounge at a table, the Eiffel tower rising behind them, a large young black man seated beside them, smiling just as brightly, teeth flashing white at the camera. A dried rose tied to a scrap of elasticized lace still seems to hold a whisper of perfume and dreams of a night of what might have beens. There are letters tied together with a ribbon of sentiment those most likely to find them would not dream either of the authors capable of penning, but the words stand stark against the paper that's soft from the time her fingers ran over it, holding it close as if the sender were encompassed inside of it, instead of gone, proving the doubters wrong.
She wants the doubters to doubt, most days. Better they see the shell she's built, better they don't guess, better to be strong. Sentiment gets you nowhere, after all, and nothing but hurt, and if her own scarred heart weren't proof enough of that, all she needs to do is look at her youngest son to be reminded of it. So the box stays tucked in the furthest corner on the highest shelf--so high she has to use a footstool herself to reach it should the mood strike--and inside the box, locked away from the prying eyes of those that might question the choices she's made and those that were made for her, are her memories, her heart, and her soul.
There's no place for them out in the world.