The box

I was going through some stuff from my parents' (my dad's) storage unit, and I wound up with a box of old papers and paper bags that I need to recycle. I was sorting in the living room, and I left my box of recycling there, towards the edge of the room so it's mostly out of the way.

But I keep looking at it, and every time I do I think "I need to move that box so mom's wheelchair can get by." And then I remember that now I can leave the box there as long as I want, because my mom won't be coming through the living room in her wheelchair anymore.

So I leave the box there, because it's not in the way. But I really leave the box there because I'm too tired to deal with it. But really I leave the box there because every time I see it I forget for a moment that my mom isn't just in the other room. Every time I see it I have this feeling, this hope, that my mom will be here, in the living room with me, if I just wait for her. And that split second of hope, of forgetting that she's gone, is worth the pain of remembering, every time I see the box, that's she's not here anymore.