The Little Box

They weren’t worth much money, but they were priceless to me. Because they were my dad’s.

Those vintage little tie tacks in the shape of guitars, locomotives, dune buggies, anchors, and crosses. Those cufflinks fashioned from Indian-head pennies. The old coins my dad had carried with him since he was a kid. An ancient Timex watch. A collection of trinkets he gave me a few years before he passed, because he knew how much I liked them and might someday pass them on to my son.

I stored these keepsakes in a little walnut jewelry box and placed it on top of my bedroom dresser. Whenever I moved to a new place, I always packed it with care. 

But in my last move to a new home, I somehow lost the little wooden box. I don’t know how it could have happened because I always packed and labeled everything meticulously. When I unpacked my stuff from the box labeled “bedroom,” it was not there, and I couldn’t find it anywhere.

I was a little angry at myself for losing something so precious. I felt I had lost much more than a little box of trinkets and costume jewelry. I felt like I had lost a part of my dad, and a part of me as well.

Fast forward a few years to yesterday. I decided it was time to part ways with “Ellie,” my beloved Hyundai Elantra, after purchasing a new Jeep Renegade I named “Renee” a few days earlier. Ellie had been my faithful auto-companion for the past 10 years, through job changes, moves, and even a divorce or two. But after a good run, I was ready to let her go to another family who I hoped would love her as much as I did. Before saying goodbye, I gave Ellie a good bath and deep clean to prepare her for sale. Sorry to see you go, Ellie, but Renee is my new ride now.

I washed the exterior and inside, front to back, cleaning with my little detailing tools every part I could reach. I got to the back cargo trunk, wiped down the panels and vacuumed the liner until it looked brand new. Done!

As I reached for the back hatch to close it, I realized I had forgotten to clean the storage compartment below the cargo bay, containing the spare tire, jack, a few tools, and a first aid kit. No telling what sort of debris and gunk might be down there. I’d better clean that too, in case potential buyers wanted to look.

I lifted the cover and peered in. It was dusty, but not too bad considering I had never cleaned that compartment before. As I vacuumed, I moved the tools around to gain access to all the nooks and crannies. I poked the extension wand into the furthest recess until it bumped into something hard and unyielding. I removed the wand to see what it was, but it was tucked too far in the corner to make out. I stuck the wand back into the recess and prodded to dislodge whatever was in there.

It moved a little, then a little more, slowly, gradually, until I could see the edge of a little brown wooden box peeking back at me. My missing jewelry box!

With shaking fingers, I retrieved it from its hiding place, and I confess, a couple of tears dripped down my cheeks. I clutched the little box to my chest like I was embracing an old friend, then lifted it to my lips and gave it a kiss.

How it ended up in that hidden place deep in the bowels of my car, I will never know. I’m 99% sure I packed it in a moving box, but there is always that tiny room for doubt. Moving day is always a chaotic event, no matter how well planned, and sometimes things get broken, lost, or misplaced.

I know this, though: what was lost is now found. What was dead is now alive. A little box filled with worthless trinkets for most people. A little box filled with the most valuable treasure for me. 

*****

Based on true events, but sadly, not the happy ending in real life as in the story. I never found my little box.