© on Jun 27 2007 10:21 PM PST, Talon Truitt Cherry

   At first glance it appears out of place, like a loud noise in the national library. It’s large, rectangle, and rather heavy, with a color similar to dried blood. If you look close enough you can see it’s merely a bad paint job, but its sheer ugliness might prevent you from lingering too closely. The edges are rounded by age, and the hinges are nearly rusted off. From every angle it’s the same, except the front. On the front of this hideous monstrosity you might call a box, is a lock. Not just any lock, it’s a master lock made with newly polished stainless steel, and the key is resting on the floor quietly next to it.
The blunt bulkiness of the lock screams stay out, and the box itself isn’t too inviting. To just leave it alone and forget about it might be in your better judgment, but curiosity is a powerful motivator in the human mind, calling, pulling, kneading, you take the key and cautiously slip it into the mouth of the master lock. It squeaks, clinks, pings, and squeaks again before it finally pops all the way in, you turn the key and crack the lock open. At this point you might be waiting for a deadly gas, or ancient curse to descend upon you, but none do. There is a slit in the lid you didn’t notice before, but your impatience is growing so you pay it no head. You slip the lock from its hook and impatiently flip the lid up on what now is remembered to be an old mail carrier.
   Old memories quickly start to rush back into your aching skull, things long forgotten. As you clear the dust from your old trinkets the dust clears from your mind, and a parade of things that should not have been forgotten dance out in excitement to jog your long locked memory. Old toys, coins, rocks, calendars, pictures, papers, writings, crafts, cards, and more, all thought to be lost, now there in front of you to view and cherish once again. The cards still just as slick as you recall, the rocks as shiny and round. A little toy 67 Fastback Pontiac GT, your childhood dream car, still in the package. So many treasures, and more! “Why, why did you forget? Why did I…” Then a picture catches your eye, it’s her. You pause and sigh deeply with passion, and remember.
   Her hair as dark as night, with a smile that lit up the world. Eyes as green as jade, but with a value, and a strength beyond diamonds. Soft mellow golden skin, and a heart with a kindness that could only be matched by her touch. She appreciated everything you ever did, wanted, needed. You close your eyes and smell her. That unforgettable scent of citrus and chamomile tea. Yet you forgot, how? The memory so vivid, her picture always there to adore once more, and remind you. Still, it’s only a picture. You can touch the coins, the rocks, the toys, but not her. No, not her, not anymore. It's best you forget, right? “I don’t know anymore!” you scream in anger, was it you? “I think” you punch the box in a blind fury and wake to the site of blood, your blood. No, my blood, paint. “That’s right, it’s only paint… Just calm down” Why do you place her on such a pedestal? She betrayed you remember? She left! “I know but I didn’t… I’m still here, still waiting.” For what? “I don’t know… Her kiss maybe, her touch, her voice… something. So many good memories with her, so many good times, so many great qualities.” Still, she left you. isn’t that enough to make you just forget about her? You have forgotten everything else because of her, but not her, why? “Its easy to forget the things that rest in your mind, but how do you forget the things that rest in your heart?” Lock it! Lock your heart like you have your mind, and don’t let it out. “but how does one lock a broken heart?” You can't, but she’s dead. “Not there she isn’t. There she is very much alive.” but you can't touch her… “no not her, not anymore”
   The excitement slowly drains from the parade and your memories creep silently back into the box. The dust settles back into your mind, but the picture of her is still clutched tightly in your right hand. You notice a smudge on her left shoulder, a water mark. A tear forms and drops in that exact spot and you remember your last memory, the reason for that blunt bulky lock. You close the lid in haste and waste the last of your energy on a kiss, slip her picture through the slot in the old mail carrier, and lock it once again.
   At first glance it appeared out of place, like a loud noise in the national library. It’s still just as large, just as rectangle and just as heavy, with a color similar to dried blood, very similar. If you look close enough you can see it’s merely a bad paint job, but its sheer ugliness might prevent you from lingering to closely. The edges are rounded by age, and the hinges are nearly rusted off. Its contents speak loud with uncontrollable excitement hindered only by your personal torment. In that box the unknown becomes known with the confusion of what now appears to be someone else’s reality. Dust hides the truth, but this experience breaths life back into the forgotten. Obviously not literally, or that blunt bulky lock wouldn’t be there to detour you. Next time hide the key, next time, but not this time. This time leave it I’ll learn next time, always next time.