The Box My Mother Kept

The Box My Mother Kept

I find her in a box
labeled “Misc.”
full of not-miscellaneous things:

wrinkled receipts—
pollo, jabón, 
stamps from the 70’s and 80’s,
movie ticket stubs to matinee rom-coms—
each neatly placed under  curled daisy petals.

Birthday cards with crooked suns,
one written by my six-year-old self
in tortured handwriting trying to be tender:
“Te amo, Mamá”
in Sharpie and crayon.
A drawing of her as a mermaid
with earrings made of stars.

Postcards mailed to herself:
“El Rio Morovis still sings.”
“Blessed Charlie”— “llora en cera”.
“Jonathan ate three sopapillas sin respirar.”

At the bottom,
a torn to-do list:

• buy stamps
• llamar a Belen
y los otros hermano/nas
• clean pantry
• reír más
• return library books
• rezar aunque no sepa por qué
• get picture framed
• no olvidar


Her eloquent, practiced handwriting leans left—
urgent, unquiet.
(The slant an inheritance of her younger male children.)
Half the list is crossed through—
the other half—
still waiting.

She wrote the way she lived:
mixed, busy, fragrant—
bleach, platanos, chisme in the air.
No “Algun Dia”
just breath
and then another.

I take the torn to-do list,
place it with a small magnet
in the dark spot where
the fridge meets the upper cabinets—
a place only I know
and only I can see.

I keep the box.
Change the label to
“gifts”—
a reminder of how she kept us—
then slide it beneath
my side of the bed,
her quiet space—
a corner only I know
and where she can finally sleep.