A cardboard box sits in front of me.  It is approximately 18x18 inches.  Two of the edges are ripped and there is an indentation on top where part of it has been crushed.  It is evident from the many layers of tape that it has been opened and resealed—not often, but more than once.  There are little blue squares to check off—bedrooms, family room, dining room, kitchen, and bath.  There is not a category for this particular box so the squares remain empty.

It is a treasure chest.  It is Pandora’s box.

Written on the top in my sloppy form of cursive are two simple words—Ali’s stuff. Ali’s stuff.  The tangible, physical evidence of a life; a short, exuberant, beautiful life.   Many of the items were put away for her to take with her when she flew from the nest.  Who would have suspected that she would fly so very far away? 

It seems that at this time of year, all roads lead back to Ali.  I stare at the box and dread how I know it will feel to open it, yet, to get through these days—I must open it.  It is like antiseptic in an open wound.  It cleanses and it burns…and it heals, be it ever so slightly.

It is nearly two o’clock.  I have emptied the box and filled it back up again.  In it, I rediscovered the story of a young woman’s life.  A story that I know well but love to read over and over again.  It begins with the inked footprints of a 7lb. 1 oz. baby girl, a blanket worn from use and a stuffed white dog named Marshmallow.  There are grade cards, stick drawings, pumpkins, bowling scores, and a cheerleading uniform.  Cards for her and cards from her—her handwriting scribbled and carefree—punctuated with smiley faces and inside jokes.

There is still a trace of dirt on her soccer shoes and the imprint of her foot in fluffy purple slippers.  A collection of CDs—each is in their plastic pocket just as she left them—some with notes written with a sharpie--her ears the last to hear them. 

There is a wallet, a driver’s license and a movie ticket…and then there is the guest book from a funeral.

After nearly three years, the vividness of her life and her death begin to fade ever so slightly--like the tape on this beaten up, 18x18, brown cardboard box.  My nose is red and my eyes are swollen—as I knew they would be.  Everything has it's cost and it's reward.  Facing the box is not nearly as painful as the possibility of forgetting even the smallest detail of her very large life. 

I traveled seventeen precious years this afternoon.  It was almost like holding her hand…but not quite.