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Lessons on life and grieving from a box of paper

A box of paper.
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(Stock image/Metro Creative Connection)

A box of paper.

In the end, is that all a life amounts to?

I see you, in the autumn of your life, colours fading, as your time nears unbidden and far too soon. And yet it is here, and like a great tree groans and shakes off its burden of dry, withered leaves before the cold of winter comes, you’re shedding what no longer serves you, and giving your last gifts before you enter your rest.

And so, you’ve given me a box — a box of all your diligently collected, lovingly stored treasures. From evaluations from elementary school teachers, vaccination records, and a science fair ribbon, artwork long thought lost, and math homework that might as well be hieroglyphics to me now, to a rent receipt from my first apartment you somehow have: you kept every scrap of paper you could find that had my name on it, all equally precious to you.

To some, it’s an excess and a cumbersome task to now wade through all those memories, but I see the care. From this box, I can fill in the gaps in my own recollection. I can correct the timeline. I can write my story.

In many ways, the mind is like an infinite filing cabinet, marking the highest priority items “urgent” and placing them prominently in the front of the top drawer, in the short-term memory with a bright tag to bring it to attention, and shunting less immediate concerns in the basement of the brain, in long-term memory, the bottom drawer.

Perhaps the most painful memories are in the darkest corner, in a lock box requiring several keys.

I thought I had all the pieces there were to have, both in my own physical files I’ve kept throughout the years and within my own memories. But the biggest parts I didn’t know I was missing were kept by you.

And so, we’re left to sort through, re-arrange and re-compile, reconciling our memories of what was and what we thought we knew, adding in the pieces from you that show us more fully who we are and where we came from.

With the knowledge of what is to come, will filling in the mural of our pasts somehow prepare us for the future? One without your shelter and grace?

A torn, stained scrap of paper that simply had my name written in your graceful hand, was important enough to you to make it into the box. Someday I will be glad to see it and remember the way you shaped the letters of my name, in the way only you did.

“A [person] without the knowledge of their past history, origin and culture is like a tree without roots.” (Marcus Garvey.)

Her roots are my origin story but who gave her nourishment and made sure the canopy cleared to give her light?

With this box of memories — one of your final gifts — I’m left to wonder: who lovingly collected the papers of your life? Who was there to cherish your finger paintings, your report cards, or a silly note passed between you and a friend about whether you should cut your hair?

Was there anyone who kept your confidences, who devotedly secreted away the minutiae of your life, as well as the momentous?

I think, most likely, those papers were lost or carelessly discarded. You’re so much more than what could fill a hundred boxes, but you deserve at least that — to be remembered, and have your personal history recorded.

Someone should know the details, from where you were born to who was your favourite teacher, the name of your first pet, to your struggles, demons, mountains climbed and valleys crossed.

But don’t worry; I will sort through the fragments, dig for the scraps and put together a mosaic until it resonates of you, and resembles your face.

I will write your story.



Emily Jaycox

About the Author: Emily Jaycox

I'm a reporter for Ponoka News and have lived in Ponoka since 2015.
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