What's Underneath

I found it while moving boxes out of the closet.

It was still under there,

still wrapped,

dust on top of the paper.

The paper is yellowed now.

The edges are soft.

The gift tag is faded—I can barely read whose handwriting it is.

But I remember.

I remember who gave it to me.

I remember why I put it there.

Because I didn't know what to do with it.

Because I didn't want to look at it.

Because that person and I stopped talking,

and the gift became evidence of when we didn't know that yet,

when we were still the kind of people who gave each other things.

I could open it now.

I could find out what it was.

But instead I push it back under the bed.

The dust settles on top again.

I'm not ready.

Or I'm too ready.

Or I know that opening it won't change anything

except the way I feel about the years that have passed.