Her Words

She keeps a box under her bed, way in the corner nearest the window. The box is the size of a small jewelry box, but wooden and plain. In the box are hundreds of scraps of paper, one word written upon each scrap. Sometimes the words are scrawled quickly in pencil, sometimes they are boldly written in all caps with ink. Never names, although she wants to write the names of the ones who came before him. Just impressions or feelings or objects, enough to capture the thought but not enough to damage anything if the box were discovered.

Bench.

Coal.

Caramel.

Skin.

Cotton.

Smoke.

Dance.

Unwittingly.

Desperately.

He can never know about the box, should never know, but if he did, he would probably be puzzled and wouldn't bother to read more than a couple of scraps, and he certainly wouldn't lay them out to look for patterns.

When she feels tethered, she fingers the paper. With her eyes closed she can feel the bold words and the soft ones. She lets them slip through her hands to the floor and listens to the whisper on wood and wonders if the breeze blew them through the window could she follow.

If you were to paint her she'd be in a cotton dress, in bare feet, sitting on the edge of the bed in a plain room. It would be a hundred years ago, and she'd have rough, worn hands for someone so young. She might be looking out a window, or she might be looking at her papers near her feet. He'd be working in the field, visible through the window behind her, but small compared to the vast horizon.