A Monument

I have a box,
it holds the things;
let's say, a circular object
with a shiny object attached to it.
Once upon a time, I gave it to her,
then forever after passed.
She placed that on the hardwood floor.

The box has other things,
like that soft red object and its friends,
and like the photograph of us together,
and some other photos, framed,
and a little seashell I gave her
a decade and a half ago.

This box, I know what is inside;
it is not a box of chocolate,
it is not filled with hope,
it is filled with not hope,
it is filled with the past.
I keep it closed.