The Depression Box [theodora]

Do you remember the depression box? I remember it quite well. It started with an old shoe box I decided to take into the front yard and spray paint. The shaking of the can made music and fumes hung in the air like heavy, cheap, suffocating perfume. I coughed. I sat on the crunchy leaves, watching as the paint began to dry. It was early evening. It was an early, sad evening.

That was when it started getting dark early. The sun would hide behind the trees at 5pm and I would fear that all soon the darkness would be our scenery. Chills go up and down my spine even now as I can still feel the days grow shorter, shorter, shorter, sadder..

During that time, I started using child scissors to cut out forms and shapes. I bent paper clips into stick people. I preserved the leaves that otherwise would have been trampled. I scribed every word that crossed my mind. I emptied bottles of pills. I let red and blue paint run like glorious symbolism of blood and sorrow. Art was my breath. It was the depression box.

The box now sits in a paper bag, tucked away in my closet. I have not opened it in months, for it somehow still holds a haunting power I am not sure I am courageous enough to confront. It is the reminder of all of what the human heart can hurt. The depression box was the home that I never should had visited, the place I never should of had to dwell. (And where does that leave me now you ask? It leaves me with a story I have to tell, a testimony that thrives, a journey that is still being walked.)

A year later. I breathe in, I breathe out. The spray paint can is empty and a new autumn is here. I swear, I can see hope everywhere.