1/6/24

There used to be a shoebox. 

Nestled inside was a pair of jeans (ratty but thick enough to withstand the cold), a sleeveless tank top, a small jacket (the grey one with the too-long sleeves and metal aglets), a pair of worn socks, underwear, and two black-speckled flats. 

-the tennis shoes wouldn't fit-

They sat by the door. The shoebox was tucked under a child-sized dresser. This is what safety looked like. Comfort. Reassurance. There were no words or warmth. I would walk straight through that cornfield if I had to. 

Just a few hours before the sun began to peak over the broccoli trees along the horizon, before the roosters cried out like sirens into the damp morning air. As the dew set in and the coyotes receded into their *other* lands. I didn't know where they went, but I knew that they were far more afraid of humans than we were of them, so I'd be okay. That's what the grown-ups always said when they started howling across the road just before bedtime.

If coyotes could bare their teeth, then so could I. Humans have walked much farther distances. And I was no different. Human. 

And if I walked straight through, it would cut my journey in half. My journey to where? I wasn't quite sure. I wasn't quite sure what happened after leaving. Grown-ups did it all the time. I was sure that Aida's mom would have me - she seemed to love my dad - Most people did.

I could come back for my sister. She was too small to go all that way, but I was the big kid. I knew how to navigate Narnia. And I knew how to push through the blisters and the splinters gifted from the cutdown corn stalks. But I could bring her if I had to. A second sweater was tucked into the box, just in case. WE could do it, but my brother was too young. I could never leave them behind.

I am grown now. And I still save the shoeboxes.

They collect moments of comfort and safety even now. They know how to keep things quiet. Keep things cozy. I think one still carries my story. I store them in the back of the closet and peek inside when I start thinking of cornfields and coyotes and of the places I used to live.