Return To Sender: What Happens When You Get The Box Back

Let me tell you what happens when the box you sent to your former long-distance partner is returned to you after a year. You will see it on...

Let me tell you what happens when the box you sent to your former long-distance partner is returned to you after a year. You will see it on your kitchen counter top. 

Someone from your family will have found it -a mail label that had once hung from your doorknob ever so slightly off center, an indication of you not being there to pick up a package, or the mailman forgetting that doorbells exist. An all-knowing feeling will overwhelm you and the only way it will choose to verbally manifest itself is in the form of two well-known words: 

"Oh, shit."

Your parents will ask if you had bought something online, and you will feign ignorance. "Maybe one of your friends back home sent you something," they will suggest, but you know that's not quite the truth. A few days later, you will pick up this package and laugh with the lady at the post office because she will wonder why the address has been markered off with three big letters on top: RTS. "Return to Sender," she will explain. "Former boyfriend," you will respond. Understanding laughter.

Bringing the box home, you will smile at the irony of neither the box nor you having rightly timed to properly meet, and at thoughts of how heavy this box used to feel.

But the best part is slicing it open -because it is more than what Christmas Day can offer. It will almost feel like you sent yourself the present; the younger, stupider version of you sending the wisdom-comes-with-age, mature you just to see what you would do with it. First, you will find the shirts that, at the time, you thought looked great and you will realize how much of the embodiment of lame they actually are, he actually is.

Then, you will find clothing you sort-of-kind-of regret sending back; the Star Wars shirt always was good no-pants bedtime attire. You will relish the thought of wearing this shirt that just about covers your adorable ass in the most couquettable way, just for you, and only you, so much that this feeling of satisfaction will never really leave you.

You will dig deeper and find an archive of letters, post-its, notes and KitKat wrappers, and they will no longer be sweet, no longer touching, no longer filled with affection, or meaning -just a mindless garble of words from someone who didn't have anything original to say because romantic comedies did it for him.

And that will piss you off, but not as much as how pissed off you are at yourself for sticking around someone who couldn't write a letter without repeated grammatical error. You will be tempted to watch every wrong use of "their, there, they're" go up in separate pile of smoke and flames, or you will be tempted to create an art piece wherein you frame every grammatical error and hang it on a gallery wall, every same error printed out on the same coloured paper and see how much purple "your vs. you're" fills up the space.

If you're anything like me, your decision will be heavily based on how much you feel is of greater value: an art piece or environmental awareness?

The very last thing you will do is keep the rest of what's left: the Starbucks keychain you'd forgotten about and now appreciate since quitting your job at said franchise, the small box you figure you could use as storage, and the coloured markers that will make you extremely excited to take up scrapbooking again. There will be no hesitation, no stopping, no considering, because you've moved on so far ahead that if you looked back, there will only be horizon. And you realize that this box was about you, and only you.

And you (I) will not call the post office and ask why it was returned, because frankly, my dear, you (I) don't give a damn.

The next day, you will tell a friend about this box and she will ask you, "Did any old feelings return?" and somehow, you will have trouble answering this question, not because old feelings have returned, but because you don't remember any of them. So you will laugh and say, "Psh, no." inside; however, you will wonder why you don't remember.

It's only after you come home that day and find the box empty from the previous day's raid will you figure that it's not that you don't remember, it's that you don't care enough to remember because every item in that box, you will find, now relates to something or someone else.

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10 COMMENTS

  1. Im so happy that you're a much more mature and happy person than you were a year ago :) Did he ever see them? We'll never know. . . .

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  2. Damn girl you write so well. This is just beautiful

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    1. Awwww Gelo ;___; Thanks! I really appreciate it!

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  3. dude that felt like a LIFETIME AGO

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    1. lol dude IKR, fast forward lifetimes later and here I am getting hit on by black men.

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    2. tell me about ittt!! HAHA you attract the most random guys........

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  4. Read this in class oh my god, I stopped listening just to get absorbed in the blog.
    For some reason, I can relate. To the last two paragraphs, especially.

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  6. Reading this blog, so beautiful D! I miss reading your notebooks

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  7. I absolutely love this. Although as someone that is currently in a LDR, I hope I never have to go through this. Beautifully written.

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