Always meant for you to have this. I guess I thought I’d have more time to make sure you got it. Not your fault.
I know sometimes these things happen. That’s life.
This belonged to my mother. It’s one of the few things left of her. You never knew her, of course, but I think she’d like you to have it. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. But I think it’s true.
Inside is everything, Tyson. Everything about you and me.
Everything that makes us who we are.
The note falls at my side.
I look inside the box.
It’s our story.
And it is. Oh my God, it is. Little things. All these little things.
Here is a ticket stub for the first movie we ever saw together, some horrendous summer blockbuster with special effects and explosions that we both made fun of but secretly loved.
Here is a page from an awful epic poem I’d written about the battle against that malicious force known as Santa/Satan.
Here is a tattered photograph of us standing side by side, and I’m so small next to him. Just a little guy. Both our faces are upturned and exploding in color as we watch fireworks burst above us.
Here is a note I’d written him and left in his car when I was eleven, lamenting my new teacher and how trivial she seemed, and didn’t Dominic think the public school system was failing me? Didn’t he think it’d be better if I was homeschooled? We’ll have to find some way to trick Bear into doing this, I wrote. Or I should just skip to high school and go to class with you. That would probably be the wisest decision. Let us work on a plan tonight.
Here is a copy of Brave New World, the first thing I’d ever given him. It was new when I bought it. Now it’s lovingly worn, having been read countless times.
Here is a receipt for Skee-Ball on the boardwalk.
Here is a pair of broken sunglasses, his that I’d accidentally sat on and smashed.
Here is the funky pair I’d bought to replace the broken ones, bright green and ridiculous.
Here are these things. Here are all these little things, inconsequential to others, but everything to me. I find more and more and more. A button. A pin. Notes and stubs and photos and bits of strings and fabric and everything. The farther I dig, the deeper it goes until I am surrounded by him and me, until I am engulfed by everything that made us who we are.
This tin.
This test score.
This birthday candle.
This Christmas ornament.
This PETA flyer.
This broken bracelet.
It’s all us. Every bit. Every piece. Every part.
Eventually, I reach the bottom. My face is wet, and I do nothing to wipe my eyes, even as they blur. It’s not as hard to breathe as I thought such a thing would be.
There’s one last thing in the box. Another folded note.
I take it out. Open.
I meant what I said that day when we first met.
It’s inevitable, Tyson.