The Jay Box
By Loretta Morris
No one deserves to be forgotten
No one deserves to fade away
No one should come and go
And have no one know he was ever even here
No one deserves to disappear
(Dear Evan Hansen, Disappear)
My youngest brother, Jay, passed away at age 24 in an incident so heart-breaking, so tragic, that it took me nearly 25 years to find the words to write my first story about him, Just Jay. And now, after another 10 years have passed, it seems The Jay Box has started whispering itself into my head and won’t be quieted until committed to paper. And so…
There is a box on a shelf in the storage area of my basement. It resembles what I can only describe as a middle school shop class final project: heavy wood, inexpertly stained a dark, uneven mahogany, flimsy hinges, no lock, measuring approximately 24 x 12 x 12 inches, corners joined in a slightly skewed fashion. When my parents passed away, I uncovered it in the back of their hallway closet, and upon opening it and revealing its contents, realized it needed a new home with me.
The box holds my brother Jay’s life. Its contents are organized in a way that was typical of my parents, that is to say, no organization at all. Kindergarten pictures and SAT scores in the same manilla envelope. Boy Scout badges and University of Illinois lab ID badge clipped together. A tiny blue newborn’s hospital bracelet nestled inside of a lone leather golf glove. “Baby’s First Christmas” card, signed by my siblings and me in our juvenile scrawl and a sympathy card sent to my parents from a neighbor, stuck together, bookends of his short life. There are college transcripts and elementary school report cards, a first communion program and a funeral program nested together. His medical school stethoscope wound around a Pinewood Derby car. Beginnings and endings, all jumbled up in a messy heap.
As the family ages, there are not many of us left who remember him. All aunts and uncles are gone. All cousins have passed as well. At the time of his death, Jay had only two nephews, three more and two nieces had yet to be born. The older of the two nephews, Matt, age 14 at the time, remembers him. Tommy, age 7 at the time, has only vague recollections of him. We lost track of Jay’s friends decades ago.
Last Christmas Eve I asked my siblings to go through the box and take anything they wanted. There was a Boy Scout compass that my brother took, and my sister decided to keep a photograph of him from high school. That’s it.
So now I am faced with a difficult decision. Do I throw away what is left of his short life, or do I leave it for my children to throw away after I’m gone? My kids never knew him. The box will mean nothing to them and simply get tossed into a dumpster along with whatever else they find no value in from my house.
Maybe that’s just the way life is. Say a final goodbye to the dead in order to make space on the shelves for the living. Maybe it’s time.
Maybe.