Every so often I pull the shoebox out of my closet. A more accurate account would be; it falls on me when I’m looking for something else. Not wanting to mess with the universe I always take a moment to ponder it’s contents. More often than not my scrutiny is unavoidable as it has spilled onto the floor. My shoebox isn’t in the best of shape; it’s never occurred to me to find a sturdier, more suitable box. I prefer to tape it up, return the treasure, and slide it back on the shelf.

The shoebox contains letters; over 50 years of hopes, dreams, heartache, and best wishes. The better part of my life falls on my head from a dusty old duct taped box. I don’t read them, feel sad, or contemplate any life other than the one I have. If anything I worry about what others might think…

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