It was eighty years in the making, my box of resentment. It started out small, a stachel at best, filled with momentoes of girlhood joy, collected on the journey of youth. Along my path I'd occasionally take a fall, of which I'd keep reminders too, in my stachel, now a bag.
And how my bag did grow, with each passing year. The wrongs I felt taking up ever more room in my growing box of fear. There was no more room for silly memories that had faded over the years.
Bigger and bigger my box grew with each passing decade. It's contents needing ever more curation and care, taking all my time. It consumed me.
So, now it's time to put my box away, six feet down and filled with my bones. It's been a long strange trip, and my only regret is to not have put my resentments aside.