Flash! Fiction 3 by Peter McMillan - HTML preview

75

The Box

Nathalie walked in with a box. Said it was for me. Didn't say who it was from, just that it was left for me.

I asked her to open it since my arthritis was acting up real bad and I was liable to drop it and break or scatter whatever was inside.

She said she'd have to do it later, 'cause she had to go look after Miss Emily down the hall. Miss Emily had fallen again.

Nathalie put the box on my bedside table, within sight but just out of reach in case I tried to get it and pushed it over by accident.

It was a pretty good size box. Not a moving box or anything close to that size. More like a hat box, for women's hats. I never wore a hat, but my late wife, Lizzie, did.

A hat box. Square. Two of them that size would have been a perfect cube. Seemed kinda old to me. Not that it was scratched or damaged in any way. It just looked old, like it couldn't be from today's stores. But then I'm not exactly up-to-date anymore.

Something to think about—this box. I had to figure who could have sent it and what was inside it. Couldn't imagine. Hadn't seen or talked to any friends or family in I don't know how long. Course, most of our friends were on the West Coast and both Lizzie and me were only children and our two boys died young. Their wives remarried and we lost touch.

What could be in there? Didn't look heavy when Nathalie moved it.

Didn't rattle around either. Maybe a blanket, an afghan, or whatever they call them, donated by some organization or other in town.