The box

Sharon Becker Gale

The box was sitting on the counter.

It wasn’t there when I left the house.

The sun was shining on the silk material covering it, it shimmered with an odd light.

It wasn’t large or small, just interesting.

The design on the silk reminded me of the orient.

Questions seem to be about “Why” lately.

Never mind, I thought, as my mind raced to picture what may be in the box.

Remember the time that you collected a rock, a bird feather, and a shell?

That was too long ago, a child’s collection.

The love letters written during a horrid war, was the box filled with those?

What ever happened to my Grandmother’s handkerchiefs? I loved to smell them.

Maybe the box is large enough for the collection of butterflies I collected as a teenager?

Remember also the ski metals, so proud and boastful you were of those.

No, the box must be filled with the exotic, something I haven’t dreamed of in awhile.

A ticket to Paris, or an opal from Australia?

Perhaps it’s magic?

A pill for stopping aging or a lottery ticket with winning numbers.

It may be something I’ve already received.

Diamonds from a loving husband.

I reached for the box quickly, in fact literally grabbed it!

My impatience at thinking so long and not doing over powering my self control.

I opened the box.

Empty, absolutely empty, or was it?