The burning of the boyfriend boxes

It was a lighter, as I said. And a damned classy one, too.

The boxes looked innocuous. The most recent one had accumulated detritus, a bit of which I had added as recently as last spring. I packed the tokens and photos into a bag and set them aside. I'm trying to find closure, not death by toxic fumes.

The first to go: the RETURN TO SENDER. Just like the song! Only much, much suckier. It was an act of chivalry which, while appreciated, was nevertheless as effective as turning it on its edge and stabbing it straight into my chest.

At this point I began shaking a bit, so I balled up the bag, tossed the letters back into the box, and looked inside the second one. This box was much older, and fell apart when I rummaged it. Mostly recess notes and complaints about how mean our parents were.There were also assorted photos and remnants from high school jammed in there. It was sad sorting through it; I broke up with this boy very poorly. I was 17, and self-absorbed, and casually cruel. I've been sorry about it for a long time.

The burning spot had grown over, and I needed to pull a lot of wild jungle weeds out of it. Mongooses flew through the brush like popping weasels as I crashed around yanking on vines.

I got the Mormon Lady pot out and filled it with water, in case I started a brush fire. Because a pot of water will totally stop a raging brush fire.

I was scared of the lighter, which didn't have a safety clip. If there is no safety, HOW WILL I NOT BURN OFF MY FACE?! I lit a note, puffed out the lighter, and dropped it. I had to hunt around for it when the first paper died out. It is possible that dropping a hot lighter into the grass and losing it may not be the best way to avoid a brush fire.

Somehow, I did not ignite my pants or hair. I fed the papers in one by one, and only had to put the grass out once. It took a surprisingly long time, and I was alarmed by how hot it was. Obviously, fire is supposed to be hot, but when you watch a movie with a hero on one side of a wall of fire, it's easy to think, oh, just jump through it, you weenie! No. Fire is fucking hot. I'm so sorry, Dennis Quaid.

When I had watched the last one wither to grey ashes, I dumped the pot of water on the pit and went back to the house with the empty boxes.

I don't feel jubilant, or free, or closured (closed? closurated? clostophicated?) but I haven't started crying or scraping all the ashes into an urn to sleep with at night, so that's good. If my motorcycle lessons end in disaster, these old secrets are safe with me. And if that's the last reparation I can make, well, that's something, at least.