Your Box.

I have a box. Black, Japaneese, a gift from Sue. She was my sister at one point. When I was young, much younger than I remember, my family hosted an exchange student from Japan. My teddy bear still wears the shirt she made for me before she left. She had this amazing puffy paint, and there's a drawing of a young Rocky in aname style smiling, blonde hair, and a striped shirt. For some reason I'm blue. I used to wear the shirt all the time, and then I got bigger and grew out of it. It still fits Ted like a glove.
A couple of years ago, a package arrived in the mail. A tea set with chopsticks and plates. Wonderful, beautiful, and glorious. The kind that you would see on Antiques Roadshow. There was also a black box with faded blue lines on it. A lovely box, and I stole it from my parent's house.
I stored his memories in that box. It sat next to my desk. Crude drawings on cigarette packs and little trinkets: beer caps, small notes, reminders of who you were to me. I haven't opened it for a long time. I looked at it this afternoon, and I wanted to remember. Remember the pain, the hurt, make it real. If it's real, I can grow from it. So I opened the box.
Empty. I must have removed the contents at some earlier point in the year, tossed them into that trash symbolically of how you threw me away. I guess I thought that if you could get rid of me, I could get rid of your memories. So now all you are to me is an empty box.
But there is something in the box: a memory lingers. Pain. It is real, and the empty confines is a clostrophobic reminder of how we ended. But that's who you are: an empty box with a lingering pain. Not just to me, but to everybody you cross. So enjoy your lonley demise. I won't be there when you crash.