Young Writers Society

It is dark in the closet, but somehow enough light filters in to be gloomy. It is cramped, buried under clothes and old bags, but somehow there is enough room for dust to gather like time on the grave of someone nobody remembers.

Brighter light filters in, suddenly, as the clothes are pushed away, and there is a face. The eyes are somehow different, and the body very different, but the face is almost the same as the last time it looked at the box.

Curious, gentle hands lift the box. Still just as gentle, maybe gentler, but harder than the last time they helf the box - harder with the years.

The lid is pried loose carefully, as if it might break, and the face's somehow-different eyes go wide and soft.

Even more gently than before, the hands lift out a soft white bunny, velvety cloth ears hanging as it stares into the face - little black eyes of thread staring into glimmering blue eyes that seem almost the same now. It smells like a flower, like baby powder, like an old blanket, all at the same time.

The bunny is softly laid against the box, and a little pink blanket, gently folded, comes out carressed in those hands. Then a little brown-haired doll, a miniature blue tea set, a small picture book.

The face has gone soft now as it lifts the last items out - a tiny pink dress, with gold glittery lines along the ruffled hem and sides, and a little silver tiara with glass diamonds inlaid all over.

The gentle hands spread the worn pink blanket our across a dark wood floor, the soft white bunny sitting at one side. Little teacups are arranged in a ring along the edge, a small spoon resting in the miniature teapot in the middle. The doll rests against the wall at another end of the blanket, the colorful picture book lying open before her to read. The blue eyes are shining with memory as they arrange the pages. The little tiara is nestled into now-longer hair.

The hands are shaking as they slowly pick up the tiny pink dress. Blue eyes fill with tears as they stare at it, at the flowery ruffles and gold glittering patterns.

The picture is almost complete. The teacups are arranged, the companions seated just properly, the book opened to the right page, but that little pink gown will never fit again. The picture will never be complete again. Never again.

The eyes tear away as a knock sounds from the door. The gown is tossed into the box, the tiara shortly after, followed by quickly stacked teacups and a roughly folded blanket. The doll bounces a little as it lands on the blanket, and the bunny is plunked into the box last. The lid is crammed on, the boxed hastily pushed back into the corner, and the light disappears as the door closes.

It is dark in the closet, but somehow enough light filters in to be gloomy. It becomes cramped, as the box is slowly buried again in clothes and old bags, but somehow there is enough room for dust to gather - dust on the grave of something nobody remembers.