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Items in a box
Today I place these items in this box. The box is round, intricately carved from wood. I carved it myself for this very purpose, hours of detailed work and cramped neck. I knew I had to carve this box, I think, before I even knew what it was for. The box holds my dearest possessions and represents my deepest self. The carvings on it show the story of my own short life.
I take the box outside, where the warm breeze lifts my hair from my face. It ruffles my dress, and I can feel the sun shining hot on my back as I bend over.
I think, someday someone will find this box. As I work, I wonder who will find the story of my life, and the story of my death. With what little imagination I have left to spare, I think, and I tell myself the story. I tell myself about you, the one who finds the box.
Someday, you will find my box. It will be a warm summer day, like this one is. You will be sitting in the grass, noticing how it waves slightly at the slightest touch of breeze, the breath of the wind. The flowers will be as pink as my sun-scorched cheeks and the sky will be as blue as my sad eyes. A single cloud will drift lazily across the clear sky, fluffy and white.
When you find my box you will have been thinking about life, and the world itself. You will be in a deep thoughtful mood, contemplating the meaning of life. When you find my box you will understand.
At first, you will be slightly puzzled by what you find. The outside of the box will be falling apart from the dampness it has been through since I last held it, and it will have dirt crusted into the fine details. But you will be able to make out the pictures I carved, and you will not be quite sure what it all means.
When you open the box, you will see all my dearest possessions. You will see the little scrap of cloth which came from my mother’s dress just before she died, but how could you know the story of that? You will see the little note, folded up, but you will not read that yet. You will see the locket, shaped like a heart, which used to hold a picture of me before I took it out.
You will see all these things, and you will see many more things in the box, but you will still not be quite sure what they mean. You will know that this is someone’s box from long ago, but whose? And why did she bury it here? And then, you will see the little bottle, empty now. You will see the words written on the label. You will know the story of my life, because of that bottle. The bottle will explain everything.
You will put the box away. You will not want to know what the not says. Maybe some day, some time, you will be ready to open the note. But not now, not on this summer day. You will not be ready for this yet.
I have carefully taken out the contents of the bottle, and put them in a small cup. I put the bottle in with the other things in the box, before I cover it up with dirt. I finish my work and turn towards the house.
Before I enter, I turn towards the fields, the trees, and the deep blue sky one last time before I leave forever. I whisper a silent goodbye to the breeze and the grass, the birds and the flowers. Then, I turn away from my life and enter the door to the house, where the little cup waits for me.
I will never see the sun again. That is my last thought as I drink the poison, and then the whole world goes black.
I will never see the sun again.