A tray full of my baby teeth, my blue heart, and an oval-shaped locket with my father's photograph nestled inside all tucked neatly in a wooden box amongst other things on the top shelf of my closet for safe keeping. I didn't open it often, but when eventide was just the right amount of disconsolate and unaccompanied, I'd reach for it and grasp at my fathers sweater to smell his scent to somewhat be close to him; the remnants of him still in the fabric even after all the time. though it was riddled with the smell of hardwood, wine stains, and my own natural scent. I dismissed the thought of washing the sweater altogether and decided to keep it in this box shamelessly, holding it close on nights like this; cursing the earth for being so cruel.
