The Shoe Box

There is a shoe box under my bed that exists for one sole purpose. No pun intended.

Its purpose was – YOU.

See, the only way I could deal with us, was to write. So, I would hand write letters to you, sealed envelope and all, whenever I felt the need to. I guess you could say it was rather frequent because the whole damn thing is full. I actually ran out of space. That’s the day I stopped, like the lack of space was some kind of cosmic sign, or something.

There are exactly 333 letters that you’ll never read. You’ll never see the wine glass stains, or how the ink smeared from my tears, or the drops of coffee that accidentally dribbled onto a few of the pages. You’ll never know how I felt back then, how much I loved you – you’ll never read a word.

So, now what do I do? Bury it? I suppose. Burn it? Maybe. I can’t bring myself to simply throw it away. What was once a source of comfort to me is now a box of pain. How do I destroy it? My predicament makes me think of Robert Frost’s Fire and Ice.

Some say the world will end in fire,
Some say in ice.
From what I’ve tasted of desire
I hold with those who favor fire.
But if I had to perish twice,
I think I know enough of hate
To say that for destruction ice
Is also great
And would suffice.

Fire seems appropriate because at one point you were all I ever thought I could, or would, or should desire. But ice – never! Because I will never ever hate you.

So, if I must destroy it and destroy it I must – FIRE.


      1. Ooh, that depends.
        Sometimes being serious is so hugely overrated,
        and sometimes silliness is all we have.
        Not that I wasn’t totally serious about the starcatcher plume. Isn’t that why we light fires?

        Liked by 1 person

  1. You must burn it at a stake like witches and heretics of days gone by. The only way to rid your life of that grief and purify yourself of those things is by fire.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. There was a time when I used to journalize my thoughts and feelings every day, on my laptop. One day my late son said I should write them and not use the keys, as there was a deep relationship between pen and paper. Not being quite certain about this advice, but respecting his wisdom I agreed to give it a try. Some months down the line, he asked what I did with my (now) written copies. I said that I filed them. His response was simply, “Why?” “I don’t know, ” I replied. “Burn them Daddy, they’ve served their purpose.” I miss my son’s wisdom but with it comes the bittersweet twins of pain and fond memory.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. What a beautiful and precious memory! Yet, yes, bittersweet. My heartfelt and sincere condolences for the loss of your son. No parent should bear that horrific pain. You’re right! What wisdom and obvious intelligence came from him! “They’ve served their purpose.” I love that. Thank you for sharing such a sweet memory with me, with us.


  3. Eleanor, Eleanor, where have you been, was it perchance London, to vist the Queen? Have missed your posts…
    Thank you so much for your comforting words Eleanor. Thank you too that your comments section give all of us an opportunity to share our thoughts. Amongst many other qualities you are generous in giving us your time and attention. Blessings, Peter.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. Peter, I’m so glad to read your words once more! Unfortunately, I did not have the pleasure of going out of the country. Though, I really wish I could get across the pond! I went off the grid for a bit. A bit longer than anticipated… I’m so happy to be back. I have greatly missed my WordPress Family!

      You’re welcome! It is my pleasure and honor to be able to read a vast array of feedback, praise, criticism, feelings, sharing of stories, even questions! Thank you for the warm welcome! Sláinte Mhath!

      Liked by 1 person

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