there is a box in my closet. It's taped shut and it's filled with junk. Papers, scraps, receipts, old mail. I've had this box too many years to count and it does not belong to me. But I've kept it virtually untouched for years. If I moved it moved, from my parents house, to college, to my first apartment, to my second apartment, to NYC, to the second apt in NYC and finally here, to our home. The other day I opened it and looked through the belongings as If I've never seen them before. It's a time capsule. An unintended snapshot of a life that is long gone. This box belonged to my brother Charlie. And like I said it's mostly junk. Scraps of paper, check stubs, mail. Mementos that I cherish could have easily been trashed years ago. But when I look through these things I feel he isn't so far away. I feel not so alone. And even though it was years and years ago, sometimes the pain comes flooding back and even that I don't mind. Because I never want to forget, I want to know that he knows...how much we all loved him. How much we all miss him. Because even though I've grown up and am very far away from the 13 year old little girl he knew when he died, a part of me, or all of me will always be defined by my brother's life, his laugh, his warmth, his charm, his sarcasm, his life... and his death.