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Shoebox

July 13, 2013

The slipping away of an art.

notestoponder

Every so often I pull the shoebox from my closet, usually when it falls on my head as I’m looking for something else. Unavoidable scrutiny rises from contents spilled on the floor. My shoebox isn’t in the best of shape, it never occurrs to me to find a sturdier, more suitable box. I prefer to tape it up, return the treasure and slide it back on the shelf.

Shoebox contains letters – 50 years of hopes, dreams, heartache, and best wishes. The better part of life falls on my head from a dusty duct taped box. I don’t read them, feel remorse or contemplate any life other than the one I have. If anything I worry about what others might think if something happened to me and they found my shoebox. As my children grow older I worry less and less about misunderstanding or judgement. My husband may not even…

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