There is a box on a bookshelf in my house which is out of my reach.  The box is covered with beautifully colored flower designs with a metal label holder which remains empty.  Inside are cards of wishes for my health to return, small gifts and the thoughts and prayers of family and friends.  This box sits next to two of the remaining books I used to try to communicate while I was unable to speak.  Missing are two journals my friends faithfully kept of my daily events and visitors – these journals went missing the day I was transferred from the Intensive Care Unit to the vent unit.  Journals are considered legal documents which often vanish; a subject for another story.   I tried to go through the box and the books about a year ago and could not emotionally return to the “scene of the crime”.  As I explained to a friend, I felt as if I ran out of a burning building; I can still feel the heat on my back.  So, I am still running but, the air is a bit cooler.  There are parts of this burning building I will never be able to bring myself to look back toward again.  I think I am able to slow the pace as more distance was covered and turn my head towards the flames now.  Maybe, when I can walk and drive and get dressed by myself, the flames will be reduced to embers.  Yeah, it’s the little things I miss.