There is danger in opening boxes, in seeing and touching what you have kept, in wondering why you kept this and not that, in wishing for something that will never, can never, be there in the faded red of worn cotton, in the handwriting, the cursive letter L, in the gold needle and a skein of yarn, in the exact page of the bookmark.  In decisions made, indecision.  In possibilities abandoned.

What do you wish for when you open the box?