The Box
03/06/10 14:58
I have a job to do tomorrow. A preservation job. A hard job. I don’t look forward to it, and it hurts to even think about it, so I’m going to talk about my truck, first.
I have this truck; it’s a big truck. I don’t really care for it, because I can’t park it very well. I always end up in two parking spaces, kind of swayed over into someone else’s space, at the back. Actually, I’m not a good driver, either. Everyone remarks on it. And lots of people give me the “one finger salute” on the freeway. . I’ve run over the tops of two cars backing that stupid thing up. There’s a lot of “Oh My God!” from my passengers, too. In fact, now that I come to think of it, I don’t get that many passengers volunteering to ride with me.
Anyway, I got this truck. And my big brother likes that truck. I leave it at his house, near Houston, when I have to fly across the country and stay for a few months, on business. And, while it’s there, he cleans it up. I don’t like cleaning it, either. To me, it’s just a truck. I keep all kinds of things in it, and it often needs to be cleaned out. But my brother cleans it for me, when I leave it at his house. He’s a Texan and he likes trucks.
There’s this box in the truck. I travel with that box. It’s just a cardboard box, sealed up with tape. On the top and on the sides, I wrote on it: “Keith’s Stuff.” It’s not a big box. About the size of a couple of shoe boxes, put together. But it’s got some of Keith’s stuff in it. A couple of his shirts, a pair of blue jeans he always wore. Even a used Kleenex I can’t seem to part with. That box is always in my car, whatever car I have at the moment, or truck, as the case has been for the last few years.
Anyway, the box broke. Split at the seams. I guess it had something heavy on it, and the seams gave way. My brother knew enough not to touch it. He left it on the backseat, seams split, contents about to tumble out.
So, I got another box, a new one. And I’ve got it in the living room of my RV right now.
Tomorrow, I will take those precious things out of the crumpled and broken box, and I will pack them again, in a new box. And I will write “Keith’s Stuff” on the new box and put it back in my truck.
I don’t know how the contents of that box are faring, though. One of the pieces of paper that I saved looks like it’s about to fall apart; IS falling apart. But there is a shirt in there; I saw it when I brought it into the house tonight. Keith’s shirt, one he always liked to wear; one he looked particularly good in. I recognized the pattern of the material and I could almost see him again, wearing it.
And there’s the first alcoholic drink he ever bought. We agreed that we would save it, to commemorate the occasion. A Zima beer. I saw it, caressed by old yellowing newspapers, it’s old and yellow now, too. I remember Keith had it on his coffee table, in his apartment. I had bought him a small Christmas tree, a Santa Claus attached to it, with a tape recorded message that would play anytime someone moved near it. Keith said that he was going to change the message to: “Move away from the beer. Step away from the beer.” I wish he had. I would have saved that, too. How I would love to hear his voice again.
All of it put together probably wouldn’t fetch ten cents at a garage sale, but it’s more precious to me than oceans of gold. It’s as close as I will ever get to my son again, in this lifetime. And, somehow, tomorrow, before I set off on the road, in my truck again, I have to go through that box, and put everything back together, without leaving a mark on it. It has to be as close as it can be to the way that it was when he was here.
It just has to.
I have this truck; it’s a big truck. I don’t really care for it, because I can’t park it very well. I always end up in two parking spaces, kind of swayed over into someone else’s space, at the back. Actually, I’m not a good driver, either. Everyone remarks on it. And lots of people give me the “one finger salute” on the freeway. . I’ve run over the tops of two cars backing that stupid thing up. There’s a lot of “Oh My God!” from my passengers, too. In fact, now that I come to think of it, I don’t get that many passengers volunteering to ride with me.
Anyway, I got this truck. And my big brother likes that truck. I leave it at his house, near Houston, when I have to fly across the country and stay for a few months, on business. And, while it’s there, he cleans it up. I don’t like cleaning it, either. To me, it’s just a truck. I keep all kinds of things in it, and it often needs to be cleaned out. But my brother cleans it for me, when I leave it at his house. He’s a Texan and he likes trucks.
There’s this box in the truck. I travel with that box. It’s just a cardboard box, sealed up with tape. On the top and on the sides, I wrote on it: “Keith’s Stuff.” It’s not a big box. About the size of a couple of shoe boxes, put together. But it’s got some of Keith’s stuff in it. A couple of his shirts, a pair of blue jeans he always wore. Even a used Kleenex I can’t seem to part with. That box is always in my car, whatever car I have at the moment, or truck, as the case has been for the last few years.
Anyway, the box broke. Split at the seams. I guess it had something heavy on it, and the seams gave way. My brother knew enough not to touch it. He left it on the backseat, seams split, contents about to tumble out.
So, I got another box, a new one. And I’ve got it in the living room of my RV right now.
Tomorrow, I will take those precious things out of the crumpled and broken box, and I will pack them again, in a new box. And I will write “Keith’s Stuff” on the new box and put it back in my truck.
I don’t know how the contents of that box are faring, though. One of the pieces of paper that I saved looks like it’s about to fall apart; IS falling apart. But there is a shirt in there; I saw it when I brought it into the house tonight. Keith’s shirt, one he always liked to wear; one he looked particularly good in. I recognized the pattern of the material and I could almost see him again, wearing it.
And there’s the first alcoholic drink he ever bought. We agreed that we would save it, to commemorate the occasion. A Zima beer. I saw it, caressed by old yellowing newspapers, it’s old and yellow now, too. I remember Keith had it on his coffee table, in his apartment. I had bought him a small Christmas tree, a Santa Claus attached to it, with a tape recorded message that would play anytime someone moved near it. Keith said that he was going to change the message to: “Move away from the beer. Step away from the beer.” I wish he had. I would have saved that, too. How I would love to hear his voice again.
All of it put together probably wouldn’t fetch ten cents at a garage sale, but it’s more precious to me than oceans of gold. It’s as close as I will ever get to my son again, in this lifetime. And, somehow, tomorrow, before I set off on the road, in my truck again, I have to go through that box, and put everything back together, without leaving a mark on it. It has to be as close as it can be to the way that it was when he was here.
It just has to.