Box

by Foust

Foust reads “Box”

When I was cleaning out the closet underneath the basement stairs, I found a set of old woodworking tools. I assumed they were left behind by someone who lived here before. I never saw you use them.
…..Did you make this beautiful box?
…..I’ve turned it over several times, held the surface under bright light, but I can’t see any telltale gouges that look like they might have come from you. The surface is smooth. The corners dovetail seamlessly. The paths of the wood grain curl into a collection of open mouths that say nothing.
…..This morning, I saw my breath cloud the air for the first time since early spring. Frost silvered the grass. When I slipped a sweater out of my bottom drawer—my purple mohair with the worn-out elbows—I uncovered the box. Clever of you to put it underneath my favorite sweater. You knew I wouldn’t be looking there until cold weather came. By that time, you would be long gone.
…..I almost didn’t notice the box was there. Perhaps you shouldn’t have nested it in a sweater that was the same oaky brown.
…..You must have believed something was going to go wrong.
…..I was there with you when the doctor insisted it was routine surgery. She said you had nothing to worry about—in 48 hours, you’d be home. Convalescing.
…..I confess I wasn’t looking forward to playing your nurse. You were always a lousy patient, denying you needed anything and then sulking when you didn’t get it. I don’t believe I ever figured out what you wanted, though you always expected me to know.
…..Is that why you put a combination lock on this box? A final test for me—I should be able to guess the three significant numbers and crack your code.
…..I’ve tried every number I can think of. The day we met. The day we married. My birthday. Your birthday. Our zip code. Any and all combinations of our social security numbers. Our shoe sizes, our heights, our weights. When I turn the dial, the numbers circle dumbly, with no click of recognition.
…..If you’re able to see me now, I’ll bet you’re laughing.
…..You always laughed the hardest when I looked the most foolish. You must have been close to convulsing when you came up with your numbers.
…..I have considered filing the lock off—the hasp isn’t very thick. I could go to a locksmith and pay someone to pick the lock. I could saw the box in half. I could smash it to bits.
…..The funny thing is, it may be empty.
…..I shake it and it doesn’t make any noise. It isn’t heavy. Maybe I’m tying myself in knots over nothing but empty space.
…..So, I’ve decided to give up. If I don’t know the things I’m supposed to know, never mind.
…..I’m going to return your beautiful wooden box to the brown woolen nest you made in my bottom drawer. I’m going to shut the drawer. I’ll leave the box there. In the dark. Unopened.
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Foust is a writer and printmaker who lives in Richmond VA. Her stories have appeared in Minnetonka Review, Smokelong Quarterly, Wrong Tree Review, and Word Riot, to name a few. She has an MFA in creative writing from Spalding University.

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