It was a shoebox I got my new sneakers in. I kept it as a reminder of him. Not because he bought my shoes but because I kept every little thing that could jog my memory of him in it. By now it was covered in dust from sitting in my closet for so long.
He lived in Verde, 20 miles outside of Bingham. He wasn’t the love of my life, but I did love him. Then again I was 17 and thought I loved everyone. I kept trinkets that he gave me, a gummy candy frog that was green, letters we wrote, pictures… anything that made me think of him.
As I finally took the old shoebox from its place in the closet, my hands shook. They hadn’t done that before, but now, they did and I couldn’t stop it. My fingers were covered in thick gray dust that had settled among the box since 2002. I lifted the top and felt like I was 17 all over again.
Everything in there had decayed. The frog was nothing more than a raisin now and the pictures were fading to the point of no recognition. I couldn’t read the letters he sent me because I couldn’t make out the words that he scribbled in pencil and I couldn’t even see the lines on the paper. Only one thing had survived being in the forgotten box…
He was into me, so much so that he bought me a promise ring… after I dumped him for the new guy I loved. I sent it back, but a week later, it was in my mailbox again with a note saying, “I want you to keep it. I have no use for it, there is only one girl I want to have it and she sent it back. Please just keep it… if not because we will be together, at least do it just for me. Love you always, Michael.” I never wore it, until three years later. I just put it in the box next to the frog that I thought held so much importance.
Eventually I received another letter and a picture of him holding a rose. He was covered in silver spray paint, and the smell of aerosol lingered on the letter. It clung to my fingers for hours after holding the letter. I pushed it away, stashing it in the shoebox, hoping that I would never smell it again; yet every time I opened the closet door for a new shirt, there was that smell, invading my walls and my clothes, like it had a right to make me cry over him.
Years went by. I saw him occasionally; at the car wash or at the gas station. We were older now, but he still looked the same. His attitude was different, but he still looked like the Michael I knew at 17. He was dressed different, said he was heading to Navy because he wasn’t getting what he wanted out of life here. He didn’t have to spell it out, I knew he meant me. But from what I knew, he had a new girlfriend… with my name.
I never saw him again after we were at Joe’s Car Wash on Front St. He never wrote me again, and I never took out the box to remember him. I figured he was okay, and I knew he was. I had heard he was marrying that girl. People said they were happy, I didn’t doubt it; too many years went by that he gave up on me.
I guess I don’t really know what happened, I can just assume. On that cold February night in 2005 when the phone rang changed my life. It was a consolation call from Michael’s best friend. I hadn’t talked to him in ages and honestly don’t even know how he got my number. But that was less important when he said, “Michael is dead. It’s in the paper; I can’t believe you didn’t see it.”
Dead? That was absurd. He was getting married in a week and was happy. I remember throwing the phone, like it was the liar in this situation. I had to see for myself. I took the car keys, and headed out to the Pilot for a copy of my own; crying the whole way there and back without sneaking a peak at it because it was the key to the truth that had my heart breaking at that very moment.
After arriving home, I sat in my car for almost two hours. The bitter cold began to sink in and my hands started to go numb. Nothing would hurt more though than holding the newspaper and reading the headline I feared. Three years ago, he was a happy go lucky teenager and now, he was being shipped from his navy base back home without a single breath in his body. I was mad, upset and everything else bad.
I don’t know how it happened, and I don’t know why I decided to go to the funeral. I had a logic that everyone close to him needed sympathy and I wanted to be there for them. He and I were close at one point, and I just thought I should pay my respects. I have to admit, I was there to pay my respects more than I was to sympathize.
I did go that night, I traveled my way through Verde, down one way streets until the funeral parlor came into view. There were already navy personal there and cars lined the curb down six blocks. The black hearse sat in front and people lined themselves down around the block as they piled into the little 1800’s home to say goodbye to Michael. I eventually made my way in, signed the guest book and grabbed a card bearing the poem his family chose.
I was there five minutes if that, my mom by my side handing our coats to the greeter and standing in line. I knew his girlfriend would be there, they were to be married in a week, and I had no idea who she was. We had never met, but I knew it was the right thing to do… give her hug and a card that I had saying, “Time will ease your pain, life's about changing, nothing ever stays the same.”
Then a tall blonde came up to me, grabbed me by the arm and pulled me outside. With no introduction she said, “What the hell are you doing here? Michael would not want you here. I know who you are. You broke his heart. I don’t want you here, get out.” I was blown away. This must be his fiancé.
The only thing I could say without getting punched into the ground was, “How do you know who I am?”
Her eyes squinted at me like she was a rabid beast waiting to kill its delicious dinner. “I saw pictures. Michael showed me pictures from the shoebox he had. You… he wouldn’t want you here. He stopped loving you after you broke his heart.”
“Pictures? How can you say that he didn’t still love me or wouldn’t want me here if he had pictures? If he showed you these pictures, he must have kept them for a reason.”
As she huffed, I felt like I was breathing in fire. “You just better go. I wouldn’t want to do something I regret at my fiancés funeral.”
I left after that, never being able to say goodbye to Michael. Emptiness in my heart still lingers to the day. Maybe I just never let it go. Or maybe I just can’t forgive myself for being immature at 17. I still am able to think about him. I do have this ring that he gave me and to me to keep. I guess now is a better time than ever to finally wear it. But the rest of the shoebox is just a dust collector, I should probably just say goodbye now and throw it away.
So in all fairness Michael, I tried to say goodbye a long time ago, but since I couldn’t, rest in peace.
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