Because the road
turns long and lonely sometimes,
I built this box of delight.
I picked up the lid
and into it I put…
My children laughing, together.
The look of giddy disbelief on my mother’s face when that black-capped chickadee
swooped in and landed next to her knee, waking her up from her Alzheimered daze.
The bitter bite of rhubarb pie smothered by a spoonful of half-melted vanilla ice cream.
That field of fireflies at the bottom of the West Virginia hills.
Roahl Dahl or Neil Gaiman’s books read at bedtime.
Kick ball.
Being pulled through a snowy field on a saucer sled
tied to the bumper of my dad’s Chevy Vega with tire chains wrapped around every
wheel.
Deep dish pizza. The smell of a tangerine. French press.
The first bite of a perfectly made croissant, proving that decadence sometimes purifies
the soul.
An artichoke, with no limits on the butter.
Mixtapes made with tunes from the eighties.
Sweatshirts worn faithfully for 20 years, their holes a reminder that to be used up is a
gift.
The first fall tree to boldly burn red while its less-brave siblings stay safely green.
Stumbling on black raspberries while walking in the woods;
No, scratch that. Instead let’s put in having a loved one save you some black raspberries
they found in the woods.
Seeing the smile on my claustrophobic wife’s face
after finally snorkeling in the waters of St. John.
That sweet, night owl quiet when worries don’t seem so big or so scary.
My 6 year-old daughter writing “I love you Mom and Dad” on our car seat, in permanent
marker.
The way subway street musicians suddenly turn strangers into fellow humans.
The feeling of getting warm after being cold.
My wife’s laugh, and how much I love her toes.
And the knowledge that all this will be gone,
but is not gone yet.
That’s what’s in my box.
I wonder what you’ll put in yours.
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