We should handle it the best way we know how and get on with it. That's what my mind says, I just wish somebody would explain it to my heart.

There is a box in my mind. A brown cardboard box held together with pieces of tape that are falling off from being opened and shut so many times. I keep the box closed as much as I can but every once in a while late at night, I'll fiddle with a piece of the tape and one of the flaps comes open. Once part of it is open, I am powerless to contain everything that is inside. The pieces come bounding out and I chase them around in my head trying to get them back in.

What would my mother's email address be? I think gloriajean@_____.com
What would she rather play: Apples to Apples or Scattergories?
How would it be to go with her to watch Emily in the band? To hear her cheer for Christopher and Calvin at football? To talk with Spencer during his field trips? To play choo-choo's with Cameron? To cuddle Lizzie in her arms?
What would she think of my house? How would she like our finished basement? What color would she suggest I paint my room?
What would she give the kids for their birthdays? Christmas? What special traditions would she have for their baptisms, entering YW and YM?
What would she think of our snacks on Thanksgiving?
What would the birthday signs look like for her birthday?
Would she prefer Pride and Prejudice or Sense and Sensibility?
How many Facebook friends would she have?
What would her calling be?
Would she have gone back to school after Anna had grown?
What would it feel like to sit next to her and have her arm around me and feel so safe and loved?
Would she have gotten a pretzel or popcorn from Mr. Popcorn?
What would she have been most proud of me for? Most disappointed?
Would we sing and dance to Beatles songs with the kids?
Would she like Wii and play tennis with Anna and I?
What gadgets would she pick up at Ikea each time we visit?
Would she wear Crocs?
What would her cell phone ring tone be?
Would she like American Idol? Survivor? The Mentalist?
What would she think about me getting up today at 9:30 and then going to take a nap at noon?
What would it be like to bury my face in her hair and tell her my deepest fears, secrets, hopes, dreams, disappointments?

My mind is exhausted from chasing these thoughts around my head. Finally, each one is caught and returned to the box which is taped up and kicked back to the bottom of my consciousness.

Stay hidden, box. Once opened, you leave me with a tear-stained pillow and a sleepless night.