The cardboard box

It came in a cardboard box -

the life that I had built.

A hand-written note, a pair of socks,

photos in shattered glass, my mother's hand stitched quilt,

and the memories I had tried so hard to bury.

-

But I had escaped, and these things no longer defined me.

Despite the rising pulse; the grief that filled my eyes,

the fear that I would end up back in that place -

I was reminded that I was alive and well,

and free from those shackles.

-

I picked out what to keep, what to store, and what to burn.

-

The quilt returned to my room, now occupied by one.

The socks were tucked neatly into a drawer

whose corners still wore the dents of long distance travel.

The photos and handwritten notes

I let drift into the dancing flames of a warm campfire,

feeling the weight lift off my shoulders

as the ashes of my past rose into a sun-kissed sky.

-

The tears would flow, the instincts to flee would ignite again,

but I would remain - stalwart in the face of this pain.

I returned to the cardboard box, now empty,

and imagined filling it again

with a happier life.