You Live In a Box

You live in a box in my drawer. We decided to cremate you because I wanted you to be with me. I was your one and only home. I didn't want to to be alone, to be thrown away in the garbage like you were nothing.

I've never looked inside.

I've held you. I've gently touched the edges of the box in which you reside. But I haven't opened it yet. Holding that box makes me cry. Makes me cry those toddler tears. The ones that take over your entire body. The shaking sobs. But I can't look inside.

Do I keep you with me?

Do I spread your ashes?

How do I choose a final resting place for someone who has never lived any place except inside of me?

Do I choose a place that I love? (that I will then instantly loathe...)

Do I choose a place I think you would have loved? (But I've never met you, so how would I know?)

So for now, my sweet child, stay with me.

The only home you have ever known.