The box

There’s a 

[sealed grey 

box] with a black 

x in the corner to 

mark it. Never to be 

opened by another soul, 

and never again to be opened 

by me. Not yet. In 2003 we fell 

in love. You wore a RAGE hoodie 

and one of those overdone hats for ska 

-obsessed stoners. They called me Fag 

because I wore your clothes and they spit on 

me, literally, and I fought and eventually they left 

us alone because I was big enough, and my shoulders, 

broad, and I knew how to be hit. And I wore it, thin, breathy, 

netted, and tight, and I made others uncomfortable, but it reminded 

me of you. And for that one period of time I didn’t care. Then the donut 

spare on the Honda convinced insurance that it was an accident, and I took 

everything and soaked it all, reddened my cheeks, and I closed you up in a [ 

sealed grey box] with a black x in the corner. And our teachers began gazing 

with despair, whispers: Too young for this. They mostly left me alone then, too. 

They all knew, and once the English teacher found me, head in my locker, crying. 

She massaged my back even though it was against every rule. And I missed the scent, 

even though I hated cloves and incense, and the insipid smell of scented trash bags, and 

I don’t even know if they make those anymore, and the shampoo that reminded me of our 

baths together when you’d wash my skin and my hair, and didn’t care about my body’s 

shape, and detergent residue on your hoodie. A mistake, maybe, or fate, and a 

pack with only a cigarette or two, because getting them was so hard 

sometimes then. And the photos of us. Me in your clothes, black 

hair, a strange cut, and my t-shirt you’d wear and the leaves from 

our walks in October. The [sealed grey box] with the x in the 

corner contains a reminder. Brave. I thought so. To be 

myself for once. Then, and now, I keep it closed. A 

coward. A [sealed grey box] with a black x in the 

corner, and a hope that I may yet smell that time 

once more before I go. And though the world 

has grown, I have never publically been that 

me again. That me is in a [sealed grey 

box], with a black x in the corner, 

in a dark closet, in a dark room. 

Just like me. Afraid. 

Without you, 

maybe. 

Originating from rural Nebraska, Miles Mayer is an award-winning educator, singer-songwriter, and author/editor in science and academics. He has been published in Academe, Analytical Chemistry, and Talanta. He enjoys cold, dimly lit rooms and falling down rabbit holes.