Opening The Box
Issue #2 - Boston (Narrated)
It’s Sunday, and once again, I’ve blindly reached into The Box.
But before I tell you what I discovered, I’ll answer three questions:
What’s in The Box?
Where did it come from?
Why did I carry it locked for 35 years?
The Box is filled with letters and photographs and cards, and most of all, love.
A love I’ve experienced only once in my lifetime. One that has swept over me at unexpected times, reminding me that I am loved, still. One that I treasure to this day.
The letters in The Box come from Rob.
I met him in 1985, a moment I’ve always described as heart-stopping, breath-taking, memory-making, and life-changing.
And — it was reciprocated.
I thought I might literally lose the strength to stand. We were suspended in time, connected across that room by some unknown but totally knowable energy that descended upon us from a distant plane.
I knew I’d never be the same.
Regrettably, his wife also witnessed that moment. She would remember it instantly some six years later, when he revealed he’d had an affair he could no longer keep secret.
So now you know what’s in The Box. And you know where the words and images came from.
I kept them locked away for two reasons:
First, I was married to someone else. Two husbands, actually, over time. But The Box was mine — my life, my experience, and my decision to keep what lay within sacrosanct.
Second, I knew that its contents would reveal the deficiencies in my current world — that of being married to someone who did not, quite, measure up.
I didn’t want that feeling, because for many years, Daniel (my third husband) and I had a very happy marriage. We raised his young daughter together. I believed that opening the box would only result in my running off the emotional rails — something my marriage didn’t need or deserve.
With that 32-year marriage now behind me, I knew I’d open The Box at some point.
And now I am.
Today, I unfold a hurried missive from 1990, written in blue ink as a plane neared Boston:
I want to kiss you so boldly as if I know you and go to bed with you as if we are accustomed to doing that with each other. But right now I wonder if we will be more strangers than lovers and wonder how long it will take to put the matter to rest. Perhaps an instant. I don’t know. I want to close my eyes now and think of you.
We are 17 minutes out! About 17 minutes more than I can stand… within half an hour I could be pulling you close to me and asking how you are; telling you I love you, missed you, and how happy I am to see you.
Oh will you be there, Mary? Are you all right? Are we all right? Smile for me and hold me close and Please Please Be there. Mary there’s snow on the ground — the first time we can be out with snow and maybe a chill and a runny nose — I didn’t bring handkerchiefs but I’m not going back. We’re down. Just gotta find all my stuff and You.
(And this from the hotel lobby, in a pen with black ink):
We’re checking in!”
Then the rest of the page left blank — as we folded into each other’s arms and made a new memory.
I remember that day in Boston with crystal clarity.
Waist-high snow had been shoveled by some kind soul, fencing each side of the walkway. The January freeze was inconsequential. The runny noses were funny, taken care of with a chuckle and the back side of a mitten.
Gloves came off because I wanted my cold hands to be warmed by intertwining his fingers with mine — our palms touching with the perfect fit of the human species: a man and a woman, together, at last.
All these years later, I feel him as if he were here.
I touch the paper he touched. I read the words he wrote. I rediscover the anxious anticipation he felt — and remember how, yes, it was put to rest in an instant.
What an honor that another human being not only cared so deeply for me, but wanted to memorialize it in this way — enough to finish the letter with three words dashed off in a different ink, as if in a sigh of relief that we were, indeed, all right.
There are pages and pages of that letter.
I’m glad I felt so strongly as to keep The Box in my care for decades.
What have you kept for a long time?
It need not be locked away for 35 years.
It could be something you see every day — or so often that you no longer even see it.
But when you do, it brings you joy. A feeling of connection. A meaningful touch from the past.
You may also be keeping something that brings pain. You may not bring it out — or not very often.
I’ve been through seven downsizings.
Downsizing is important at any age, because it helps us cathartically rid ourselves of physical and emotional things that should no longer be part of our lives. Some decisions are tough. Some are easy.
I’ve listed a resource at the end of this newsletter you may find helpful.
For me, I knew without question: I’d keep The Box.
And I’m so glad I did.
See you next week, when Rob’s letter inspires me to explore what it means to lose something you truly believe in.
But now,
💌 Reply to this post and tell me — what have you kept?
Something treasured? Something hidden? Something you're ready to let go of?
I want to know.
Remember:
Heartbeats are Finite.
Possibilities are Infinite.
P.S.
Special thanks to Rita Wilkins, the Downsizing Designer! For everyone looking to downsize be sure to read and subscribe to Rita’s Substack.
Thank you for enjoying this issue of Opening The Box. It's an honor to share my treasure with you. Please become a subscriber...I sincerely welcome paid subscribers, but a subscription is free. Paid subscribers will unlock bonus letters, stories from readers and listeners, behind-the-scenes reflections, and the insider's journey behind the romance of a lifetime. Every subscription helps me keep The Box open. With gratitude, Mary