There's Something About a Box

There’s something about a box. I think it’s the excitement of wondering what’s within; the anticipation as you lift the lid and peer in. I’ve had a lifelong fascination for small containers, reasoning that they will always ‘come in useful for something.’  And sometimes they do: earrings, pens, paperclips (do people still use them?), drawing pins, old birthday cards, the children’s first teeth etc etc.  

I don’t just ‘buy’ boxes, I also find it impossible to throw away old ones: tiny ones that contained a pair of earrings, medium ones that came with make up or toiletries and those lovely big shoe boxes, full of beautifully moulded suede and leather. In my eyes they’re all useful. 

Just recently my husband thought he would surprise me. Whilst I was away he transferred my bottles of hair colour and related paraphernalia from a perfectly sized shoe box, that fitted snugly under the bathroom sink, to a large basket with a huge immovable, arched handle. It had been delivered full of plants, now long since dead, and abandoned in the garden while I decided what to do with it.  I discovered the basket on the landing, slightly damp, slightly misshapen, and overflowing with coloured bottles.  I didn’t realise this was a ‘lovely surprise’ for me. I thought it was the husband’s way of getting rid of something he thinks is rubbish and I don’t. We spend our lives tussling over items that I decide will ‘come in useful’ and he thinks need to become landfill.  

So he put on a plausible act of appearing shocked and hurt when my first question was, ‘Where’s the shoebox?’  

Rather than answering, he repeated, rather less confidently now, that he’d thought the basket would be a lovely surprise for me.  It appeared the shoe box was in the bin. Crushed beyond recognition. He was obviously taking no chances.  

The following day the basket had disappeared from the landing and apparently been put in the airing cupboard (the only place that could accommodate the huge handle). I had to explain that if the bottles remained in such a hot space all hair colour would dry up and he would be married to a mousy grey haired woman. Was that really what he wanted? Wisely, he didn’t reply. 

The basket, with contents, has been removed from the airing cupboard and now annoyingly takes up space next to the bath.  I haven’t told the husband yet that there’s only one solution.  He’ll know soon enough when those coveted summer sandals are delivered in a smart new box. 

My Dad’s Ashes by Jill Reidy

I thought it would be an urn 

It’s not, things have changed 

It’s a box

Quite heavy

As is fitting

The lid taped

I suppose it has to be

Name and date scribbled 

On a black edged label

So it’s real

I wipe away a tear 

Run my hand across the lid 

And decide not to open it 

Just yet

Thanks for reading..... Jill