The Box - Amy

The box arrived and I let it sit there. I knew what it contained. Something hard earned. Something wrought. Something personal. Something lasting. It sat there waiting for me to open it. There in the upper left corner of the square box, oversized, I thought for its contents, but befitting its sender, was the return address sticker. His name simply printed. Mine, scrawled in black felt marker. An artist's hand. I didn't want to open it because I knew that with one slice of the knife I would unseal emotion I had boxed up in order to begin a new chapter in my own life. I didn't want to open it because I wanted to hold on to the moment to the memory to him. But there it was beckoning to me through its corrugated exterior something to be relished something to be cherished. I slid the knife along the taped edges until it neatly opened. A knowing anticipation. A tiny, monumental, private moment between the two of us. The box within the box, a highly polished, lacquered piece of art itself shining amidst tissue paper and bubble wrap bespoke the treasure within. The story of a life and the author's signature laying claim to it. An effort spanning over eighty years. In my hands I held the gift of a lifetime. Jim's autobiography. Volume 1. Its title, A Song of My Years. For me. His story, a reminder of the unfinished chapters of my own life. The files of starts, nearly dones, abandoned pages of then waiting to be opened. A Song of My Years reminds me it's never too late to begin again. Jim's song a sweet symphony of inspiration I will savor for the rest of my life.