There’s this box, you see.
It’s about the size of a Bible, I’d say.
Pale purple. Lightweight. Tucked away in a drawer, although I’m not sure which one.
It has followed us around the country for the past ten years.
and finally, to Charlotte.
Charlotte was supposed to be home. A forever home. A place where family–our little family and his extended family–settled to land dream jobs and make babies and turn bare, unpainted houses into family homes.
Anyway, the box. That f*cking box.
It’s filled with all these little papers. Surveys. Printed on acid-free paper, and written on with indelible ink.
In the weeks prior to our wedding, our family members and friends completed these surveys.
They made predictions about where Drew and I would be on our tenth anniversary. What life would be like for us.
Where would we be living? How many babies would we have? What kind of jobs would we be doing? Would we be rich or poor? Would we drive a sports car or a minivan? Would we sleep on the left or the right side of the bed?
We also filled out surveys on behalf of ourselves. All hopeful and giggly and anticipatory.
God, we were so young.
None of the questions asked if we’d still love each other in 10 years.
If we’d struggle to be kind to one another.
If we’d hurt one another in such a fundamental way that there would be days when we’d look in the mirror and barely recognize ourselves in the reflection.
None of the questions asked if we’d hurt our children with our selfishness.
If our spouse’s family members were pissed at us for saying and doing and writing the wrong thing all. the. damn. time.
If we’d google words like “divorce” and “child support” and “alimony” and “loneliness”.
Our tenth anniversary is in four days.
This f*cking box haunts me.
But I know I will open it.