For 33 years I kept the dilapidated cardboard box the military sent to me after Bruce was killed in Vietnam. It contained personal items of clothing, his dog tags, letters I wrote to him, the Bible I gave him for his 18th birthday, his wedding ring and his Zodiac watch that looked like it had been shot off his arm. Other numerous items included the silver necklace he wore with St. Christopher on one side and the Marine insignia on the other. It was the one we placed between our lips as we kissed good-bye.
    These items confirmed that Bruce was dead.
    For a long time I left the withering container unattended in the basement of my parents’ home. Sometimes I would quietly slip away and go down the narrow wooden steps that led to the unfinished room where Bruce's last belongings sat hidden away among other discarded treasures. I thought about the first time I saw him. He had finished basic training. His light brown hair was acquiring length and the pipe he smoked indicated a deeper maturity than did the teenage whiskers on his face. I held his things to my heart and cried the tears of a lost young girl.
    The single light bulb hanging from the bare wooden rafters in the center of the room was the only electrical light source. The gray cement walls and floor kept the room cool and dark.
    The dampness and musty smell signaled that no one actually lived in this part of the house.
    In the early 1970’s the most horrible reality slapped me in the face. While holding the light green shirt he wore after our wedding I awoke to the fact that Bruce was not ever going to come home. No matter how many tears I shed or how hard I prayed, my sweet Bruce would never be back. More of my heart died that day. As the finality of death made it’s appearance, I took another dip into the hollow darkness and advanced further into the shadows of despair.
    My wounded self continued to roam more desperately, searching for a reason to live and a place to belong.
    In the 1980’s I periodically tried to convince myself that I was “letting go” and began to give his things away. I started moving the remainder of his possessions with me, keeping the bulky box near but out of sight.
    In 1991 I was looking for reasons my life continued to crumble even after my greatest efforts to find peace and happiness. My subconscious must have been trying to tell me the answer all along. The sacred memories locked in my heart stirred as my weary body sit next to the worn-down box on the ‘60’s orange, shag carpet in my bedroom.
    My tears dripped onto the pages as I relived the words I wrote to Bruce. Then, one by one I placed the letters onto the flames in the wood stove.
    I thought that by getting rid of the letters I wrote to Bruce, it would also destroy any proof or written history of my feelings. The testament of my love for him would go up in smoke and disappear like he did. I could avoid having to confront the complexity of the loss of my youth. I would not ever have to relive my thoughts, dreams and hopes of the springtime of my life.
    As I burned memories of myself, my journey toward self-destruction continued to spiral downward.
    Thank God I did not burn the letters Bruce had written to me.
    In 2001, I emotionally, physically and financially hit bottom. The accumulation of lost jobs, relationships and my health overwhelmed me. In the past, I was able to pick myself up and approach life with some facility of “normal.”
    When I wasn’t able to hold myself together, I would just move on to another job, another person, another town, and continue to build on the life of my false self. But this time was different. I was not able to bounce back. My survival skills were worn out and used up.
    Often I would find myself sitting on the couch staring out the window and suddenly realize I had been there for hours. I was grossly overweight. My five-foot frame topped out at 248 pounds.
    I was in serious emotional, physical and financial trouble.
    When my faith started to grow weary I knew it was time to make a change. I believe I was allowed to exhaust all my former dreams and ambitions so I could let go of my self-serving desires and confidently move into the will of God, knowing that I had tried everything possible.
    Even so, I fought hard to keep from surrendering my will. I came to understand the meaning of the words in the song, “Me and Bobby McGee”: “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose...”
The crossroads of my life insisted that I make a choice. My “I can do it all alone” attitude had to go. I was beaten.
It was very humbling to turn my will over and choose life over death. I began to pray more frequently. At night I visualized placing myself into the comforting arms of God and allowed God to comfort me. In the middle of my life transition, I began to feel a sense of peace.
    I was very thankful when my property sold for just enough money to pay my bills and allow me to move to be closer to family. It was painful to let go of my past and all the things I worked so hard to keep, but the more I let go the better I began to feel.
    Moving from my dream place with three bedrooms and two baths on a two-acre mini-farm, to a small, one-bedroom rental was a challenge. I was close to the mountain and called my new place “The cabin.” There was still snow on the ground. The cold weather chilled me to the core.
    For several days I had no Internet service or even a television to watch. The door of my mind began to open and I cried for my most recent losses. I thought I was making new discoveries about heartache, only to hear the words come back at me from the local Country & Western radio station. There had been a song written about everything I was feeling. Every new concept in my awakening brain had already been felt, written and sung about. I was not the first, nor would I be the last, to have a broken heart. I would live, though I felt as if I would die.
    This move convinced me that all the excess baggage from my past lives had to go, including my emotional baggage.There was no place for storage, no money to rent a storage unit and no energy to pack and unpack “things.”
    There it was, waiting in the center of my bantam living room, demanding my immediate attention. With its silent voice the 1968 cardboard box from Vietnam once again beckoned my heart to explore its contents.
    I decided I would read Bruce’s letters one last time, then place them into a smaller box and never, ever open it again.
    The mere thought of saying good-bye to Bruce caused my heart to feel shattered. I held his watch and sobbed uncontrollably. Through my tears I saw the scratched face of the 33-year-old Zodiac watch. It began to tick. I visualized a serious look on Bruce’s face and could see the concerned expression in his blue eyes as if he were pleading with me to listen.
    It is time.
    I knew exactly what that meant. The time had come for me to choose to deal with the loss of Bruce, or not.
    It was as if I had touched the root of buried grief that entangled my soul. I recognized that this chain of events had brought me onto the stage of opportunity. I continued to cry. The emotional pain was intense as I held his watch against my chest and accepted the call to begin the journey that would free my tormented soul from the grasp of my unresolved grief.