Chapter 23 - Ethan’s Box
When I was forty five, I opened the box I had not touched since funeral.
Ethan’s truck.
Dinosaur raincoat.
Kindergarten painting.
The green lunchbox, returned after evidence release.
Police had cleaned nothing.
We had chosen professional preservation.
I opened carefully.
The note still there in evidence sleeve.
Mommy loves you to the moon and back.
I cried.
Then I did something new.
I gave some items away.
Not lunchbox.
Not note.
But clothes.
Toys.
Books.
For years I believed letting objects go meant letting Ethan go.
It didn’t.
He was not stored in fabric.
Noah visited that summer.
Seventeen.
Tall.
Art portfolio under arm.
He saw the red truck.
“Is that his?”
“Yes.”
“Can I?”
I handed.
One wheel missing.
He smiled.
“I remember this.”
“What?”
“He wouldn’t let me touch it.”
I laughed.
“That sounds right.”
Noah stared.
Then:
“Can I keep dinosaur book?”
I hesitated.
Not because no.
Because yes felt huge.
“Why?”
“He was my friend before…”
“I know.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
He took one book.
Not entire legacy.
May you like
One piece.
That felt right.
