I watched as my wife struggled to get what appeared to be a wooden box about the size of a small steamer trunk from the backseat of her Prius. The scene was just too much for me not to laugh- her designer dress and four inch stilettos, trying to lift at least a fifty pound box. Maura heard my laughter from where I stood in the doorway and turned to face me. She pouted, hand on her hip, eyes glaring.

"You know Jane, you could help me." Her tone was serious, unamused. The tone she reserved for me when I screwed something up.

I offered up my hands in surrender, walking towards the car. Gently nudging her out of the way with my hip, I lifted the box easily and followed her inside. Maura motioned for me to set it on the coffee table where I finally got a better look at the contraption. The lid was carved beautifully with two large hearts intertwining, our initials and wedding date carved inside the overlapping hearts.

"It's a memory chest." She explained, her hand on my shoulder.

"Maur, this isn't really what I expected for our second anniversary. I didn't get you anything quite as...elaborate."

She laughed, lifting open the lid of the box. Inside were two smaller boxes, one said "For Jane" and the other "For Maura". Behind the carved names were silhouettes of my badge and gun, a scalpel and the medical symbol. Between the boxes was a bottle of wine and two fluted glasses.

"It's for both of us. You're supposed to spend the first year of marriage filling up these boxes for each other and on your anniversary you open the bottle of wine and exchange boxes. Most couples open them separately, it's like little tokens of love." She was so excited as she spoke about the box. Maura handed me a small key on a chain.

"But it's been more than a year." I sounded skeptical at best.

"We've been busy." She just shrugged and I could tell my lack of enthusiasm was hurting her feelings. This box idea was important to her, wanting physical tokens of my love.

I smiled at her, pulling her chin up with my fingertips. "What exactly am I supposed to put in this box?"

She smiled widely at me, excitement filling her eyes. "Anything you want, but you have to explain it clearly and concisely. There is a small notebook in each box where you can write down elaborate reasons for each item. You have the key for the one labeled "For Maura" so that I can't cheat and open it early. We'll open it and go through them next year."

I pulled her in close and swept aside the hair falling in her face. "It's a great idea, Maur."

She smiled sheepishly, her arms encircling my neck. "You really like it?"

"It's definitely you, Maura. Just don't expect a novel okay? And don't get mad if you get a bunch of Sox stuff."

Maura laughed and kissed me. "Whatever you love, I'll love too, Jane."

The wooden box was sitting in the designated spot in our closet. A place we could both easily access and still allow each other a modicum of privacy. I sat on the floor staring at it.

We would've been married five years today.

But Maura never made it to that third wedding anniversary.

I spent hours wondering what she was meticulously placing inside her box, thinking my receipt from our first real vacation as a married couple was cheap. That the Red Sox onesie I special ordered from Ma's Amazon list for the kids I was hoping we would have was corny. And the videotape I stole from Tommy of TJ's third birthday, and how Maura chased him around the park for hours, swinging him around like he was an airplane was lame. How I fell in love with her more and more each day.

I twisted the key to her box in my hands, she had left it on the nightstand the day she died. She didn't put it around her neck that morning, said she didn't want to lose it at a scene. I lifted the lid of the box and stared down at our individual boxes, the unopened bottle of wine.

With careful hands, I lifted the box labeled "For Jane" out, laying it in my lap while I inserted the key. It was immaculate, another small box off to the side labeled "muscles", a small photo album next to it, some envelopes last, the notebook taking up the last space. Maura had crammed every inch of space with tokens. She loved me so damn much, more than I deserved.

I picked up the notebook and opened it, her handwriting glaring at me from the pages. I cupped my mouth and started to cry as I read her entries.

Dear Jane,

The box labeled "Muscles" has pieces of paper with a muscle of the body and my association with it on your body. Of course there is an unknown total number of muscles so I will stick to 365, one muscle for every day.

The photo album has snapshots I've taken of you when you weren't paying attention. There's quite a few, you should really be focusing more, Jane. Maybe we can add some vitamins to your daily routine and if you stopped eating so much junk food. There's some of you sleeping because you look so peaceful, please do not find this "creepy" or "sketchy". I'm not sure what the last one means but Frankie assures me that it's apt and you will understand it.

Finally, the letters are ones I wrote to you before we were together. When I would travel, sometimes I would stay in the hotel and write to you as if you were...well, my wife.

I will continue to update this notebook with things you do or say.

I love you, Jane Rizzoli-Isles.

-Maura

Dear Jane,

You would not get out of bed this morning. It was rather amusing, you became highly upset when I informed you that it was before 7 a.m. on a Saturday. You pouted your lip and pulled me back onto the bed, using your fingers to tickle the nerve endings on my body in the places you know are sensitive. When you finally got me where you wanted me, half underneath your body, your arms securely around me, you kissed my clavicle and fell asleep.

And I have never loved you more.

I couldn't get through any more entries, too many memories came swelling up. Everyone thinks that being bombarded by memories feels like drowning, but to me it feels like being shot. And I've been shot enough times to know.

Somewhere between getting home and falling apart my mother found me. I should have been expecting it, she knew it was our anniversary, she would have done anything to help me today. As she has done with each birthday, holiday and anniversary since Maura died.

Her arms circled around me protectively, drawing me into her embrace. We sat in the closet, the tiny pieces of paper with my muscles on them in a circle around us. The notebook with Maura's entries was drenched with my tears and Ma moved it out of my lap before I could ruin it. Eventually she coaxed me out of the closet and into the bedroom so we could sit down.

I guess I had turned on Sports Center when I got home. I don't remember doing it, or even taking off my blazer and putting away my badge and gun. I just remember the box of memories tucked haphazardly in my closet. The TV was playing a recap of the Red Sox playing the Rangers in Arlington, Texas.

"You gonna tell me what's going on?" Ma asked quietly from the edge of the bed. I wiped my tears away with the tissue she handed me.

"Maura brought home that stupid box, remember? I guess I decided it was time to open it, she's not coming home anytime soon."

She looked down at the carpet, twisting a tissue in her hands. "Honey, Maura isn't ever coming home."

I looked past her at the TV, watching the Sox score as I inhaled deeply. "I just need to believe it's a possibility, ya know?" I looked down at the comforter and smiled. "Sometimes I think she's just away at that conference in Tennessee, because the Body Farm had always been her favorite place."

"That's not healthy, Jane." I could feel her eyes on me even though I was ignoring their glare. The Sox scored a home run, hit the ball into the stands. "Please look at me."

I mumbled something about not having seen this game. She reached out and snatched the remote from off the bed, pausing the game as it showed the stands and the people catching the ball. "Jane Clementine Rizzoli."

And there, in the bottom right corner of the screen was golden blonde hair that I knew by heart. It was half covered by the Red Sox ball cap I thought I'd lost, I could tell from the hole in the brim. That was my hat, and that was her head. Her hand was pulling the brim down over her eyes, turning her head away from the action, the wedding ring I'd spent months saving up for glistening. She was being as inconspicuous as possible. Hiding in plain sight.

But there on the TV screen, at the Red Sox game in Texas, sat my dead wife. "Maura." It came out of me in a guttural whisper. I was off the bed with my hand over hers on the screen in mere seconds.