He had a plank of wood the size of a good book. With a
couple nails he added another the same size. By the time he added a third plank
he could start to see the box. He imagined all the things the he might hide
inside. In the whole world this would be a space that was only his. All the
things that he would accumulate over his life would find sanctuary, rocks and
useful bits of string, cards with writing on it, a pencil with his name, a page
from a book. Each thing carrying all the memories he couldn’t hold himself. He
spins the object in his hand, runs fingertips over it’s grooves, breaths in what
it knows and he suddenly be back in time, at all the stars in the constellations
of his life.
A week before he dies he’ll take this rough and tumble box,
digs a hole next to the biggest tree in the yard. Half a century later, when
the oak is manually uprooted out of fears that it’ll crash on the house, his
great-grand niece is the one who points out the box before it is destroyed by
machinery. In the dying light of a late summer evening she places each item on
her bedroom floor. Each thing in it’s own place, with it’s own space around it.
One object for each year of life. She studies the largeness of these tiny
things, trying to puzzle out what it means. She begins with a wrist watch,
taking it up and turning it over. On the easy breeze she can smell freshly cut
grass, which reminds her of a wool picnic blanket and the taste of lemonade. As
she closes her eyes she can hear the faint pop of fireworks in the distance. When
she opens her eyes it is night time. It’s been so for hours.
