The Third Box

There was once a man who lost his name,
His sanity
And sense of self.

But he owned three boxes,
Each cardboard shape similiar in size.

This was all he knew.

He lived in a grand old Victorian home,
With a garden full of lilies and roses and petunias,
But he couldn't really see the colors.

There were little golden statuettes
In his study,
And on his desk were two
Golden, diamond studded cuff links -
A Testament to his wealth.

The house smelled of flowers,
But the room -
The room most certainly
Carried the scent of a woman.

Yet he lived alone.

The carpet was an eggshell white,
Brand new,
With a bearskin rug shipped
All the way from Romania.
But there was a faint blotch of color -
A light plum skin,
That would not disappear.

Surely it was a wine spill?

But he only ever drank
In the presence of company,
And this stain was new.

Why, I haven't had a visitor for many years...

He wondered.

But his boxes,
Those identical boxes,
Were up in the attic -
They were the only thing in life
That seemed right.

He climbed up the wooden stairs,
To assure himself.
And there they were.

He opened them up one by one,
A strange feeling of nostalgia overtaking him.
There were old newspapers, antique jewelry,
Clothing, a dusty saxophone, letters.

In the third box,
There were only pictures.
Hundreds,
If not thousands.

He held one in his hand.
There stood a woman,
Tall and elegant with long,
Slender hands.
A man stood next her,
Grinning stupidly at the sight of her face.

He turned the picture around and saw
His own name written in dark ink.

He looked up at the body length mirror.
But he was not at all the man in the picture.