"The Box"
September 28, 2001, 2:42 a.m.

Searching Collaboration project for September, 2001

This month's topic:

There is a box in your yard. What is in it? How did it get there? What is going on around the box? Did something happen because of this box? What does the box look like? Tell a story about this box, and be as creative as you want. Focus as narrowly or as broadly as you want.

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"Wait!" I called out. Crying as I ran across the yard, I wanted to reach the car before it pulled away. I wanted to stop them. I wanted to make my Dad change his mind. I didn't want her to go. My father and my grandmother were in the car. My Mom was standing at the passenger side window. Through the blur of my tears, I could see her leaning in to kiss Grandma's cheek.

Something on the ground caught my eye as I ran toward the driveway. I reached down to pick it up and recognized it as my grandmother's handkerchief box. I ran my hand across the rich cherry wood to wipe off the dirt and grass. I turned it over and noticed a small piece of wood was missing from a bottom corner exposing the edges of raw wood where it had broken. The delicate brass closure and the small brass handles on the sides were still intact. The handpainted picture on top the box was of a statuesque Siamese cat with long eyelashes wearing a string of pearls around it's neck. In the sunlight, the picture of the cat seemed somewhat faded and old. I opened the box. It was empty.

"Wait Grandma, your box!" I ran to the passenger window. Trying to catch my breath, I handed the box to my grandmother. The tears running down my face burned my skin.

"It looks like it broke a little bit, Grandma", I said while wiping my face on my sleeve. I looked at my father's face. He raised his eyebrows and sighed. I looked back at my grandmother knowing I had absolutely no hope of keeping her at home with us. She had always lived in our house. Yet, she had grown smaller while I had grown taller. It became more difficult for her to walk and her back seemed to curve more and more after each passing year. She hardly ate anything anymore and had trouble keeping what little she did eat in her stomach.

"Thank you my little Christina-Albertina-Willemina", she said softly. She lifted her fragile hand to my wet face and held it there a moment. I could feel her hand shaking just so slightly as she tried to hold it on my cheek. "You be good for your parents and make sure to come and visit me in my new home, won't you?"

"Oh Grandma!" I sobbed. "I promise I will." I leaned into the car window and hugged her. I breathed in her clean talcum-powder scent. A fresh batch of tears slid down my face as I pictured my grandmother, my best and only friend, in a place that was not our home. In a place that smelled like a hospital. In a place with long railings in the hallways and walls painted the color of celery everywhere you turned.

"Here Christy, I want you to keep my hankie box for me and take good care of it. Will you do that?" She handed the box back to me. I nodded and licked the tears from my lips, clutching the box close to me.

My Mother placed her hand on my shoulder and I stepped back from the car while my father started the car and backed out the driveway. I stood there, waving, watching my grandmother leave our home.

That was thirty-five years ago. I have kept my grandmother's hankie box and I have taken care of it. The closure and the handles are still intact. The broken corner is still missing it's piece but the wood is no longer raw. The broken edges have smoothed over. The picture of the cat on top is almost as dark as the wood it was painted on. There are no hankies in the box. Instead, I have kept my letters inside of it. Special letters. Letters of love. It is a box of treasures - a simple gift of love from my grandmother.