The potential of a box is infinite. Though confined to the square of its walls, the possibility of its inventory is limited only by the imagination. Pandora had one she shouldn’t have opened, but who can blame her? On Christmas morning it is the box, wrapped in festive paper, that holds promise. The excitement comes from opening and discovering the contents. Somehow, the joy of the thing is all tied up into that first moment of revelation. It is that brief time before opening that holds the greatest satisfaction, the box itself offering the gift, the contents a metaphor for the potential felt a moment before.
The box, an empty vessel containing nothing but the under cloak of a six sided container can be the gift. Plain or ornate, wood, metal or leather holding within their chambers our treasures, keepsakes or precious letters professing loves both here and gone.
The bone of animals who grazed fields worlds away and died at the hands of nomads wondering those lands become the keepers of our secrets. Hands painstakingly carved, tamed and crafted the whitewashed skeleton into boxes. The soul of the beast held together by these bones becomes the soul of the box.
There are magic boxes with hidden locks, known only to the owner. And there are the boxes of our childhood; these too held magic. A cigar box where special things were kept: baseball cards, keys whose locks are long forgotten, a broken penknife, a father’s discarded wallet. Magic.
A box showed up at the very first Christmas and every Christmas since. Frankincense and myrrh may have come in bottles, but I’m pretty sure the gold arrived in a box, at least if the props in our kindergarten nativity play were accurate.
One Christmas when I was a child, I tore the wrapping off my gift, and without opening it to find the contents exclaimed: “A box, I got a box!” My parents like to retell that story every Christmas. I was so excited about the box that I didn’t care what was inside.
A locked box is a mystery waiting for discovery. Curiosity blossoms when confronted with this and a child’s temptation is tested when the key is carelessly left, with coins for companions, on the top of a parent’s dresser
Precious jewels are held in boxes, important papers, evidence of our birth, our vows, the achievements of our youth. A box, empty, waits for us. We decide what goes in. Boxes contain our history, the things that help us remember ourselves. We open the box carefully and handle with great care the contents, they are the talisman of our dreams.
Eventually, it is our bodies that are remaindered to a box. Perhaps we always sense this. That is the connection we feel with these boxes. We know, in the end, we do not hold the box, the box holds us.
I bought my wife a box for Christmas. White, with intricate carvings, it is beautiful. I asked the clerk its origin. “Bone” she said, “from Tibet.” “Bone of what?” I asked. One must be careful about these things. “Animal,” then sensing my concern: “An animal that died of natural causes. Yak. Free range. A free range yak.” I suspect this story but cannot resist. SOLD. One box made from the bone of a free range yak who died of natural causes after a long, happy yak life.
My wife is unwrapping her box now. The space inside it is dark, but she brings light when she lifts the lid. Choose carefully what you place inside dear, it is empty now and waiting for your dreams.
A version of this story first appeared in the AJC. It is dedicated to my wife, Laurie, who like a box, contains within her all the treasures I hold dear.