how Stacey used to save shoeboxes for other storage purposes: letters and stationery, discarded perfumes, knit hats and mittens she might have worn twice a year. I opened the top shoebox, a shiny black Nine West job now splitting at the seams. Inside this was a small Christmas present. The paper was frosty blue with ice crystals and foil twinkles, tied off with a scissorpermed silver bow. I knew Stacey had wrapped it; that had been her favorite part of wrapping presents, using the scissor blade to strip the ribbon so that it sprung back into a coil. She had loved the texture of it, the rheatrheeeeeat and pop of each strand. The present, or pressie, as Stacey would have called it, had no label, no ‘To: -- and From: --’ tag.
Had I packed this up? I didn’t remember ever seeing it. I had probably found it buried in some closet and thrown it in before moving on. I might have been drunk, angry, in a hurry to get it over with.
I opened the present, crumpling the paper into a ball. Under the paper was yet another box (this was starting to feel like a game of Russian dolls) and I ripped that open too, at last removing from layers of lemon-colored tissue paper a silver photo frame with a glass front. Behind the glass was a photo of Stacey in Cabo San Lucas, leaning against a wooden sign in front of our favorite taco stand, a cold Corona in one hand, a fried shrimp taco in the other, smiling at me, the photographer. Then, to my astonishment (and momentary revulsion), the photo changed.
Now I was staring at a photo of Stacey at home, standing over the sink, looking over her shoulder at me, one hand in dish suds, the other flipping me the bird. Her hair was mussed, she hadn’t wanted me to snap this one. The photo changed again, and again, and I realized I was holding one of those digital frames that scrolls through dozens or hundreds of photos.
I fell back on my ass and leaned against the boxes, holding the frame with both hands as the photos phased in and out, one image of her replaced by another, and sometimes - though much more rarely - with the both of us. I realized this had been intended as a gift for me. A gift from Stacey last Christmas, the Christmas she never had. I hadn’t turned it on. She might have meant for it to be scrolling as I opened the carefully wrapped box of silver and blue. Amazingly there was life in the battery yet, and I sat numb against the boxes of her possessions as the digital frame played through the entire chronology and started again, progressing from younger to older, elementary school to the high school years to college and her twenties, daytime, napping, nightlife, bartending, singing into a wine bottle, laughing, watching me, standing with me, ignoring me, each a photo I had admired or taken, and some I had never seen, ones she might have borrowed from her parents or friends in order to scan them for me. It was, I realized with deepening, almost unbearable weight in my throat, the story of Stacey since I had known her, her every mood and the rise through our history together playing now like a sad synopsis of the first third of what should have been a lovely life.
Stacey at sixteen, the braces have just come off, white spaces on her teeth. So proud.
Stacey at seventeen, pale with nerves in her blue prom dress. Ruffled sleeves, her big hair, so pretty then, so embarrassing in retrospect. I’m next to her and look worse.
Stacey bowling in senior year gym class. Gutter ball. She actually looks sad about it.
Stacey in her Chili’s uniform. Her blonde hair in a ponytail. She had smelled like fajitas and quit after only two weeks, but still gave the restaurant two weeks’ notice.
Stacey riding a mountain bike near the Arkansas River. She is wearing a pink helmet and pink gloves, holding on for dear life. Not talented athletically, but game for the activity.
Stacey and her dad by the U-Haul on moving day. He looks like he wants to kill me for
Had I packed this up? I didn’t remember ever seeing it. I had probably found it buried in some closet and thrown it in before moving on. I might have been drunk, angry, in a hurry to get it over with.
I opened the present, crumpling the paper into a ball. Under the paper was yet another box (this was starting to feel like a game of Russian dolls) and I ripped that open too, at last removing from layers of lemon-colored tissue paper a silver photo frame with a glass front. Behind the glass was a photo of Stacey in Cabo San Lucas, leaning against a wooden sign in front of our favorite taco stand, a cold Corona in one hand, a fried shrimp taco in the other, smiling at me, the photographer. Then, to my astonishment (and momentary revulsion), the photo changed.
Now I was staring at a photo of Stacey at home, standing over the sink, looking over her shoulder at me, one hand in dish suds, the other flipping me the bird. Her hair was mussed, she hadn’t wanted me to snap this one. The photo changed again, and again, and I realized I was holding one of those digital frames that scrolls through dozens or hundreds of photos.
I fell back on my ass and leaned against the boxes, holding the frame with both hands as the photos phased in and out, one image of her replaced by another, and sometimes - though much more rarely - with the both of us. I realized this had been intended as a gift for me. A gift from Stacey last Christmas, the Christmas she never had. I hadn’t turned it on. She might have meant for it to be scrolling as I opened the carefully wrapped box of silver and blue. Amazingly there was life in the battery yet, and I sat numb against the boxes of her possessions as the digital frame played through the entire chronology and started again, progressing from younger to older, elementary school to the high school years to college and her twenties, daytime, napping, nightlife, bartending, singing into a wine bottle, laughing, watching me, standing with me, ignoring me, each a photo I had admired or taken, and some I had never seen, ones she might have borrowed from her parents or friends in order to scan them for me. It was, I realized with deepening, almost unbearable weight in my throat, the story of Stacey since I had known her, her every mood and the rise through our history together playing now like a sad synopsis of the first third of what should have been a lovely life.
Stacey at sixteen, the braces have just come off, white spaces on her teeth. So proud.
Stacey at seventeen, pale with nerves in her blue prom dress. Ruffled sleeves, her big hair, so pretty then, so embarrassing in retrospect. I’m next to her and look worse.
Stacey bowling in senior year gym class. Gutter ball. She actually looks sad about it.
Stacey in her Chili’s uniform. Her blonde hair in a ponytail. She had smelled like fajitas and quit after only two weeks, but still gave the restaurant two weeks’ notice.
Stacey riding a mountain bike near the Arkansas River. She is wearing a pink helmet and pink gloves, holding on for dear life. Not talented athletically, but game for the activity.
Stacey and her dad by the U-Haul on moving day. He looks like he wants to kill me for
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