My Life in a Box

I’ve had this obsession lately about wanting to fit my most special possessions into a box. I daydream about this box, being the perfect size and colour that will accompany me on all of my life’s transitions ... across borders and over oceans. I will add to it whenever I find or am given an object that defines a new feeling or sums up my thoughts about a particular place or person.

I’ve been holding onto several such objects for many years now, wanting to have them close to me and not having the heart to throw them out when I’ve moved to other countries. I’m not much of a collector, nor do I enjoy hoarding things (most likely due to the fact that my grandmother’s overstuffed house made me a little scared when I was a child ... and still does.)

I will freely admit that these special objects, when laid out all together in front of me, give me that unwavering pure happiness only found in small children and really old people who haven’t become bitter by their incontinence. When I look at each thing separately, I’m sucked back to a place and time in my life that was not necessarily important when it originally happened, but has since become significant to me for one reason or another. If someone were to look at these random objects laid out on a table or couch, they would be gazing into various parts of my brain and central nervous system without even knowing it. They would be peering into tiny plastic or metal windows that hold secrets unworthy of being told orally, and that can only really be revisited perfectly if I had a tiny camera in my brain connected to a projector.

There would be images of a mouth full of crooked teeth grinning at a boy... my brother... holding that stupid figurine.

There would be flashes of orange and red as large elm leaves fell from nowhere, landing in a small blue velvet bag.

There would be a Colombian emerald whizzing by a young woman in the 1950s fastening her pearl earrings.