Mine is an old cigar box that I blagged off a tobacconist. It's decorated with mosaic tile, which most everyone agrees is not a success. Well, no matter. It's all right if no one likes it but me. It's my secret box, after all.
The kids sometimes look at it in fascinated bewilderment. What is this, they ask, unable to perceive meaning in the contents. What are these pebbles and scraps of paper? All these scribbled notes? Why do you have a receipt dated August of 2002? Just for some incense and a china cup? Fortune cookie fortunes? Broken jewelry and Mercury dimes? Why would you keep these things?
To which I reply, well, that's the point of a secret box, innit? It's none of your beeswax, You don't have to explain. That's the rule.
The secrets of the box remain, more or less, secret. Anyway, explanations would only disappoint. It would hardly mean anything to them that (for example) the day of the incense and china cup, the sun glinting on the summer air made me so transcendently happy that I wanted to remember. Of course it would lack meaning to anyone else. These things are only the property of the experiencer, however sacred or mundane.
One day, they'll understand. By that time, I'm sure, they will have their own secret boxes.
Such loveliness....sunspots.....xxx
ReplyDeleteI knew you would understand. xxxx
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