The Box of Who I Was

My mother's handwriting on the label,

my name in her careful print,

and inside a version of myself

I'd forgotten about completely.

School papers. Old letters.

A photo of me at ten years old

with my best friend's arm around me,

and I don't even remember that friend's name anymore.

I'm holding the photo

and trying to recognize myself,

trying to find some trace

of the person I was,

but it's like looking at a stranger,

like looking at someone else's childhood

that just happens to have my face.

The papers are covered in gold stars,

the kind teachers used to give

for good penmanship,

for following directions,

for being small and obedient

and grateful for praise.

I was that person once.

I was someone who cared about gold stars,

who showed their mother their papers,

who had a best friend

and believed it would be forever.

The dust on the box is thick,

which means she hasn't opened it

in years either,

which means we've both been carrying

this version of me around,

keeping it safe

without knowing why.

I'm sitting on the attic floor

with these artifacts,

these pieces of a person

who doesn't exist anymore,

and I'm trying to feel something

other than the distance

between who I was

and who I became.

I'm trying to understand

where the gold stars stopped mattering,

where the best friend went,

where that version of me

went to die.

I put the photo back in the box

and I don't close it,

because closing it

would mean deciding

that she's gone,

and I'm not ready to decide that,

not yet,

not while I can still see her face

and almost remember what it felt like

to be her.