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The box keeps its home in the bottom drawer of her dresser, itself a hand-me-down kindly donated to her aunt and uncle when they found themselves with a new mouth to feed, a new body to clothe, and a room to be repurposed for a traumatized child. There’s nothing particularly special about the dresser, and even less outwardly special about the box. Honestly, it’s a garish little trunk scavenged out of a consignment shop when April was thirteen: recycled wood showing the years in chipped green paint and a set of hinges April had to replace barely a year after she bought the thing. There was some attempt to decorate it with gold foil, but it’s almost completely flaked off by now.
April doesn’t much care. It isn’t the box itself that matters. It’s the contents.
Every year, another letter – carefully folded inside an envelope – joins the assortment inside. There is rarely rhyme or reason to the content; she just writes: utterly random thoughts, or the recollection of some event that lends itself to an amusing little anecdote. She writes about the past twelve months: lessons learned, experiences had and the feelings assorted therewith; how school is going and plans for the future which, inevitably, change by the time she sets about writing a new letter.
When high school finally takes her into its contradictory embrace, the content shifts accordingly. Now, she regales the tale of the high school prom and how Jenny Marsden got her comeuppance, weeks and weeks of taunting and social humiliation only to have April’s name called as Prom Queen. She lingers on the retelling of Christmas traditions, because even though they rarely change from year to year, letter to letter, April always tells it as though there were five extra participants to share in the holiday experience: a handful of smoked ham snuck from the dinner table, a sampling of Uncle Augie’s cheesy potatoes, an assortment from the relish tray, and (naturally) a piece of pie to share.
April writes until her hand cramps, takes a break, revisits what she has written, then writes a little more – sometimes in the margins, because she forgot something in the original narrative. None of them will mind if it’s a little messy.
She always signs it the same. One day, she won’t have to sign it, won’t have to make it final. One day, she swears in the secrecy of her heart, there will be no letters, but conversation. Conversation and laughter had in front of a fire, a dinner table set with old favorites and new recipes, and it won’t matter if the other members of the fireside chat don’t respond. She never needed them to join her with words because the intrigued little tilt of Leo’s head, the thoughtful nods from Splinter as he nibbled on a bit of cheese, the way Raphie and Mikey watched her intently while tugging a piece of pizza between their jaws, and every moment spent with Donnie perched on her hand, her chest, or on her shoulder making a nest in brown hair like he couldn’t possibly be close enough, spoke volumes.
One day. But until then…
Merry Christmas.
I love you. I miss you. I wish you were here.
I’ll see you soon.