The letter

The box sat there on the surface of her desk just as it had been for over the past month. Lindsay was sure that it had been delivered during one of those weeks. The ones that seemed to come at least once a month, where she barely remembred a thing but there was always something residual from those missing seven days. Unexplained cuts and bruises, and this go around? Sun scorched skin and the banker's box. Well, once scorched skin, she reminded herself as she used a free hand to now run over the smooth skin of her exposed shoulder, the other hand holding a glass of wine to her lips as she took another long sip. She had decided to let the box be, maybe even put into storage behind a few other dusty, unopened boxes but she hadn't gotten around to it yet. She could lie to herself and say it was because she had been busy, but she knew very well that wasn't the case. Keeping the box in plain sight was a temptation of sorts. Part of her desperately wanted to look inside, to see what pieces of memories her mother had deemed important enough to keep in a box that somehow ended up with her mother's executor and eventually, on her doorstep. The box took up residence on her dining room table for the first few day, until she got fed up with seeing it every time she entered her home and transferred it to its' current resting place, on her desk.