The Fed Ex Box

The Fed Ex box, tall and narrow, has leaned against my bedroom wall now for nearly four years. Inside is the poster that Toby Maguire -- "Spidey" -- signed for Christopher. This was a gift that the studio had sent to Christopher the day they let him view the newly released Spiderman 3 movie.

I can still see Christopher sitting on his hospital bed holding the promotional poster for the movie. It is identical to the one that still hangs on his bedroom wall above his bed. "Mom, look how much richer the colors are in this one," he tells me. "I guess that's because it came directly from the studio," I say.

His eyes brighten as he examines the scene -- Spiderman studying his night-time reflection in the window and seeing only the black suit and a potential evil power within. "This is definitely the best movie of the three," Christopher exclaims. "It has the most action, the most fight scenes." I would later learn from Christopher's taekwondo teacher, Michael, that Christopher also felt a connection to Peter Parker's struggle to contain a dark side. "Christopher told me he felt like he had his own 'dark suit' -- the leukemia and a lot of anger -- and he needed to contain it so it didn't control him."

Christopher had seen Spiderman 3 with his friends for his 9th birthday in the theater just a few weeks before. Like all movies, he and his younger brother, Ryan, loved, he wanted to see it again. If he had been home, he would have just gone to the theater three or four more times. But he was stuck in the hospital and emphatic that he not watch a bootleg copy of the movie. "Mom, don't ever let me see an illegal copy of Spiderman again. It ruins the movie." Someone had given him a bootleg copy that must have been recorded inside the theater because it was dark and hard to make out the characters. Then a friend had convinced a company executive to share with us the original movie. A rep had walked the movie over to the hospital and stayed at a nearby coffee shop while Christopher watched it. That was when she brought the Fed Ex box with the signed poster for Christopher.

Christopher couldn't wait to get home to hang his poster on his bedroom wall. In a pad that his Nanna had given him, he had sketched out different designs to redecorate his room when he got out of the hospital -- Spiderman was one of a few themes.

This Fed Ex box leaned against the wall in Christopher's hospital room much like it leans against my bedroom wall. Every now and again, Christopher would take the poster out to admire it and to show visitors. Every now and again, I look over at the box and remember how much fun Christopher had the day it arrived.

The night Christopher was transferred to intensive care -- to the hospital across the street -- some things got lost when my mom and siblings cleared out his room. A prized LEGO Pirates of the Caribbean pirate ship that Christopher had built was among the lost things. Christopher and Ryan never cared for the Pirates of the Caribbean movies, but they did love LEGOs and that ship Christopher built had entertained him for days. This Fed Ex box fortunately didn't get lost in the chaos.

As I sit here, I wonder why I can't separate the poster from its box. Seeing the box as merely clutter, a friend tried to throw it away soon after I brought it home. I stopped her and said, "You need to leave the poster in the box. It's Christopher's." She didn't ask. But now, I ask myself what my connection is to this tall narrow box.

I tell myself that the box is Christopher's and therefore offers a connection. Those who know me will validate that my house is filled with connections. This box however is a more recent connection to a time when Christopher was here. Still I wonder if the attachment goes deeper. Then I realize that this box not only offers safety and protection for the poster, it helps me to keep certain feelings at bay.

I couldn't save Christopher, but I can save something that has a connection to him -- hence the reason I still have the broken spatula that he cooked with and the baby clothes that he wore. And if I take the poster out of the box and place it a frame, I have to accept that Christopher will never get to see it. I also have to accept that my precious child never got to come home or even live past the age of nine. This is why his poster has sat in its box for four years.

Three days ago something clicked for me. On July 23rd, it was four years since Christopher died. Four years? I'm not sure how that is possible, but the calendar says it is. I decide it's time -- I have to let go of some things including the Fed Ex box. After four years, I realize that Christopher is with me in ways that his things never can be. And if he could talk to me now, I know he would say, "Mom, it's just a box!"

I'm still now sure what we'll do with the poster, but as my 11 year old tells me, "Mom, don't worry. We'll figure something out."

This morning I placed the box at the curb with the other recyclables. I almost grabbed it and ran back in the house, but refrained as I remembered I don't need that crutch anymore. I will always be connected to Christopher as his mom and he will always be Ryan's big brother. This just is and always will be and material objects have nothing to do with it.