The box is filled with things that mark your absence. Books stuffed with leaflets are strewn around a chipped coffee mug and an empty lighter. An old notebook, witness to a thousand late-night meetings, sits beside a couple of snapshots from happier times. I look at the red shirt faded with use, and matching torn jeans with a pocketful of crumbled bus tickets, and remember trips to places whose names are buried within the deep recesses of our minds. A dried-up Bic, a belt buckle, a watch, a key whose lock is gone. At the bottom of the pile lies a slipper missing its pair.
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