We'd only been together a few months when I got sick. It was a beautiful summer afternoon and I was sitting in a lawn chair in my backyard so I could spit on the pavement since my throat hurt too much to swallow. I always seemed to get sick on weekends and never wanted to go to the emergency room or prompt care because it took forever to receive a prescription that would make me better just as fast as any over-the-counter medication. I had graduated from high school a few months prior and been rejected to most of the colleges I'd applied to, so I had no idea where my life was headed. My boyfriend had one more year left of high school before he graduated and moved on to the army. We spent a lot of time together that summer, sitting on the stone steps of an abandoned church not far from my house. My mother insisted I stay at home that day though, so he came to me.He walked the half-mile from his house to mine in under ten minutes. He wore cargo pants and before he left home he'd searched through his bedroom and filled his pockets with things to bring me. I waited for him on the front steps so we could share a kiss without my parents standing over my shoulder. As he came striding down the sidewalk I could hear the familiar sound of his keys jingling as they slapped against his thigh with each forward step. We hugged and he started unloading his pockets. He pulled out about five books, several VHS tapes, boxes of cold medicine, a Gameboy, and a few games. Among the items were the large blue Alka-Seltzer tablets pictured above. I tried to balance everything in my overflowing hands as we walked into the backyard. I wasn't used to having someone shower me with gifts or nice gestures and nearly started crying at his kindness.
While I was waiting out front, my mother had set up a second lawn chair beside mine and hosed down the pavement so he wouldn't have to see the puddle of spit I'd left behind. Had she met him before she would have known that he wouldn't have cared in the least and probably would have added his own saliva to the pile. My parents had gone inside and were probably watching us through the cracks in the blinds. They came out a few minutes later. My boyfriend immediately jumped up to shake my father's hand. He said something cheesy and charming like, "I want to shake the hand of the man who made this wonderful girl." My father was instantly impressed and would retell the story of the first time they met for years after. I've always liked shaking people's hands because I secretly draw conclusions about their personality based on the firmness (or weakness) of their grip. My father, who had worked with his hands most of his life and kept himself in good shape before his back breaking fall, must have been impressed by my boyfriend's bone-crushing handshake. It certainly wasn't his long hair, ripped flannel, and sailor-mouth that won him over.
I used some of the pills he had brought over and they did make me feel better. I kept the others in my desk drawer for the next time I got sick. I was constantly getting sick due to poor eating and sleeping habits, but I never used the last six pills. Even though they expired in 2004, I held onto them for sentimental value. He'd won me over that day too.
While he was deployed to Iraq, I asked my brother, a carpenter, to build me a box to store all of the letters he sent me from the war zone. My brother hand crafted a wooden box with a glass enclosure on the top. I created a pattern for a Celtic love knot and hand embroidered a design for the opening. The box was nothing as I'd imagined it would be, but my brother had made it and so I learned to love it. I can hold all of the letters he sent to me in the four years he was stationed half-way around the world in one hand. I added other mementos to the box also, including the six alka-seltzer tablets that I was still saving for no purpose other than to bring back memories.
In high school, my boyfriend and I wore matching necklaces. They were large metal balls on a chain that were popular among the goths and kids who listened to metal music. He gave me his before he deployed and I kept both in the wooden box my brother made. Last year, just before he moved out, he went through the box and removed his necklace. I don't know how he knew where to find it or why he would have cared to take back something he hadn't worn in close to ten years. When I asked him about it he said, "It's mine. I don't know why you care." I was more upset that he'd gone through my personal things, things that held so much emotional weight, that he had given to me at one point in life. I'm not quite ready to discard his letters and don't know if I'll ever be, but I'm glad that I can begin removing some of the other objects from this box.
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