She looked at the pile of boxes in the room. They reached higher than her head. The heavy step ladder helped her reach the top box, which she brought out of the room with her.
New memories were in her head now, they filled up nearly every corner of her brain, trickled down her spine and flowed into other parts of body. They dictated how she moved through the world, what she saw, what she smelled, whether she danced or frowned. But one little part of her refused to forget, refused to live in the present. It lived in this box, in the memories.
She did not open the box for a long time, just sat on the end of the bed with the box on her knees. When her legs started to fall asleep she moved the box to the floor at her feet and continued to watch it, to feel its heaviness with her eyes. She was frightened of this box and its contents, even as she simultaneously loved it.
Packing it had been difficult. It had taken her days, even months, in her head, but the physical packing was over in mere minutes. Years of her life, years she needed to forget, had been thrown carelessly into this box. She had thought that packing her memories away would help her move on. If she couldn’t remember she wouldn’t mourn what she was leaving behind. But she had missed the memories, missed who she was with them in her head, and this had kept her off-centre. Now, more than a year later, here she was. Box at her feet, about to dive back in.
“Wish me luck,” she whispered to someone unseen, and cut open the tape on the top of the box.