This box sat in the attic of an old DC home, forgotten by most who ever roamed the lower levels. But it existed, and was a sharp reminder of events long past.

This box hadn't been opened for some time. The memories contained in this box were still fresh and painful, even after many years had been spent. Its silver hinges were rusting and squeaky. It's fine rounded top had chips from being moved around. But the inscription remained; the silver letters glistening in the sunlight that seeped in everyday the through the window above it.

And there it sat, like a tree gaining rings, it gained dust layers, to account for the time untouched.

Soon, though, she would remember. The owner of this box. The anniversary of the events contained inside would draw her back, through all the dust, to this box.

--

She kneeled down next to the box. Her beautiful mahogany box, with the silver clasps and glimmering inscription.

She gently wiped away all the layers, and saw that the inscription still glimmered. She closed her eyes and ran her finger slowly over the words, clearly remembering the night she received her box.

It had been snowing, and it was very chilly out. She had been sitting in her apartment, sipping hot cocoa and reading, something she rarely had time for anymore.

There was this horrible scraping sound coming from the hallway. She looked out the door, and saw him, lugging something large down the hall.

"Let me help you!" she called, running down the hall and lifting the other end.

"What are you doing, moving in?" she asked jokingly as they set it down in her apartment.

"It's not mine, it's yours."

"Mine?" she asked, looking at him with curiosity.

"Merry Christmas."

She started at him for a moment, considering him.

"It's gorgeous," she finally settled on. "But I don't have anything for you..."

"Don't worry about it. It's not my holiday anyway," he said as he exited through the open doorway.

"I love you," she muttered, then shut her door, and continued to admire her present. Now, she read the inscription once more, as she had so many times over the ten years she had possessed this beauty.

The words warmed her heart, but yet they failed to fill the large void inside of her. Her feelings of loneliness.

She could not open the box, that was for sure. She hadn't opened the box for ten years, but she could name everything in that box. A Time magazine Special Edition, dedicated to his memory. Headlines from all over the country declaring his death. And photos, many photos, and so many more things.

Her moist eyes moved over the inscription one more time; then she stood and slowly left her attic, the words floating through her mind.

To Claudia-Jean - my favorite Berkley feminist a - love Josh December 2000