The Box
G. Matthew King

	Within my mind there is a dark corner, just out of normal sight.  
A draft runs by, playing the dust like a piano over floor seldom tread.
When I glance up, I can see a small candle just out of reach.  Ever 
flickering but never burning out.  It might be a metaphor for my soul.
	I wander farther into that corner, strange to me when it should be
so familiar.  I've walked to it before, and I'll likely walk this way a 
thousand times more.  And under the candle's winking gaze sits a small
box.  It's made of cedar; I can tell from this distance.
	The dust shuffles up as I walk to the cedar box.  It makes my nose
itch, and dries out my throat.  Maybe it is just nerves and a figment of my 
overactive imagination.  Kneeling before the box in the dust and I run my
hands over it.  Red and white cedar; smoothly sanded, but not lacquered.  
Unfinished.  Like me.
	The hinges are black burnished metal, looking like wrought iron.
But the feel is finished steel, that cold slickness from the oil on my 
fingertips.  The clasp hasn't been locked.  I could have sworn I did that
the last time I passed by.  It never stays.  The box looks bigger than a 
moment ago; must be tricks of the candle.  I grab the lid and lift.
	The cloud of dust blown up floods my nose and I sneeze without
control.  Then as quickly as it blew up, the dust settles back into a gently 
stirred gray film on the floor.   The smell of cedar then fills me, along 
with some other things.  Babypowder, and a perfume called Chloe.  I remember
where that came from.  Rain, the smell after a lightning storm.  Oh, course.
It's been so long...
	Slowly I peek into the box, lovingly touch the things within.  A red
ribbon, from a Christmas present from Nelea.  A letter saying she'd never 
leave, from a time when she hadn't yet.  And there is my trombone, used in
all those games in high school and college.  I can still play the SHS fight 
song and Rocky Top, I think.  Humboldt, TN, and a bus ride and back with her.
A cross, light green; soap stone I think.  Kelly.  That was before she scraped
her knee that time.  Some poems, and angels in chains.  Makes sense to me.
	Photos from everywhere.  Georgia, Six Flags.  Nelea.  Oh.  Right.
I remember.  There is Heather, that time she was lying on Matt's bed as we 
watched movies.  I can still see why he got a crush on her.  Jina, with her 
fussy smiley faces and screams of sisterly affection.  That day her and 
Racheal got too much expresso and fell faint on Matt's floor.  Racheal.  
A blank letter I sent to her, full of words I don't remember, but the intent
still burns within me.  That ink pen we fought over during Christmas Break, 
right before the Fiesta Bowl.  Her fair skin, and some songs she sang.  
Nelea's voice from our duet, and Kelly couldn't sing a note.
	Smiles from the cold.  Secret winks passed in band to Nelea; a
secret knowledge with Kelly.  Understanding from Racheal.  Playing in the 
rain, I see Racheal spinning and getting soaked.  Wasn't raining that bad 
when Kelly and I walked up the Hill for her test.  Soaking wet hair, and 
Nelea always wished I could wash hers.  I couldn't that night I slept over,
my parents in Louisville and she and I heading to Mexico with the church.  
Crazy people in love.
	And that is the way it's always been.  Crazy and in love.  Lovely
pictures, a leaf pressed between contact paper, a broken heart.  All in 
that little box, sitting in a dusty corner of my mind.  I know me.

Wednesday, January 20th 1999 4:26 PM