Cardboard Box

Part 2

Elizabeth Aharonian Moon

As she made room for the pitcher in the cardboard box (it had once held four Smirnoffs'), it bumped up against the mugs and plates and vases she had made in pottery class. She didn't much care for the pitcher or the bowls or the mugs she had coiled or thrown or hand-shaped from the hunks of damp, dark clay—homework assigned by her therapist: you'll feel less depressed; you can work out your anger, feel in control, be able to re-shape your life—perhaps a pottery class? Or a do-it-yourself workshop at Home Depot? In the therapist's words, she heard her mother's voice: stop moping, do something; get some fresh air.

She had chosen the class and now, thank god, it was over and she could take the shit home with her to join the other crap she had made along the way: a very uneven, rope macrame plant hanger, a white cord belt in a crooked box stitch, three needlepoint coasters with glaring mistakes, and a half-done crewel pillow sham, all crammed into a wicker box she had specifically bought at Pier One to house her “crafts.” None of these was worth displaying or wearing, and none of the handiwork had quelled her anger or re-shaped her life in spite of what the therapist had promised.

At least this pitcher, her final project, could sit outside the box, on the shelf near the window. She had glazed it a smokey gray with thumb-print smudges of winter white, hoping it would look

Japanese-y with pussy-willows on slender stems of darker gray. The handle was a bit lop-sided, but she would turn it toward the wall.

Carrying the load into her apartment, she felt like an inept lover, her arms barely and awkwardly embracing the box. She bumped it into the doorjamb by mistake and heard a crack, a raspy sound, and then a clatter. When she opened the flaps of the Smirnoff, she saw the damage: a perfect wedge of the pitcher's rim had broken off dropping into a shallow bowl fashioned to hold soy sauce or an almond or two; now it held the triangle of a broken pussy-willow. “It figures.” Had she thought this time would be different? She didn't feel anger, though; she simply felt defeated, worn out.

Dumping the wicker-box stuff into the Smirnoff's, she watched as the handicrafts fell here and there, finding resting places among the pottery pots, the pitcher, the plates. Tomorrow she'd put the whole mess on the street—maybe someone driving by would think the box contained a treasure. And, tomorrow, she'd check out Home Depot—perhaps a plumbing course. What might she discover about herself, there, amidst the washers and wrenches, the faucets and float cups, the flappers?

Charlotte Savage

     It was moving day and Mom and Daddy and five year old Hailey watched the movers carry their furniture into a huge moving van for their move from Cape Cod to Boston.  Hailey placed her orange and white cat Butterball into the kitty kennel before the movers arrived.  Butterball was known to disappear for hours.

    The house finally empty, Mama asked the movers to place Hailey’s favorite box of toys into her station wagon along with the kennel holding Butterball.     The mover saw a pink teddy bear lying beside the open box and he tossed it into the carton before he closed the lid.

               “I have the kennel and toys you asked for,” said the mover,” but I didn’t find any cat.”

              “Hailey, did you lock the kennel door when you put Butterball into it?”  

              “I think I did,” said Hailey.   

    The adults went through the house checking every nook and cranny.  No one recalled seeing Butterball all day.     Mama went into the station wagon where she had put Butterballs treats.   She stood in the kitchen shaking the box.  The sound of treats always brought Butterball out of hiding.  This time it didn’t work.

    The movers left for Boston.  The family would remain and wait for Butterballs return. Finally they asked a neighbor to look after Butterball if she should return.  It was a long silent ride for Hailey and her parents.

            Arriving at the new house the mover said,   “I’ll carry your daughter’s box of toys into her bedroom for you,”    He reached into the back of the station wagon and lifted the box out.   The lid popped open and out jumped Butterball straight into Hailey’s arms spilling the box of treats Hailey was holding all over the floor.    

              Hailey’s sad moving day turned into happiness as she watched Butterball’s bushy tail swishing back and forth as she daintily ate her treats.

2015 Charlotte Savage all rights reserved


Law Hamilton

The small waves are glossy, shimmering like melted glass on this overcast November morning.  The sky and water are monochromatic.  The waves appear tropical green when reaching up and falling on tan sand, reminders of the summer now gone.

Floating on the horizon, a cardboard box appears.  It bobs on the Atlantic, approaching in no particular hurry.  Slowly rotating, I ponder what it is, as it stays upright.  I hope it does not have kittens in it - do people still drown unwanteds?  The animation of Disney’s “Aristocats” with the butler getting rid of the kittens, runs through my head.

As the cardboard box comes closer, a red “Flammable” sticker is visible on its side.  I think about what is polluting the ocean now as the box starts to pick up speed to the beach.  The floating box sits lower in the water.  The cardboard is soaking wet becoming a darker brown.  Will it withstand the tide?

The box rides up on top of a wave with the anticipation of reaching the beach, but stays afloat.  The next wave lifts it high and carries it forward.  The third wave crashes, filling the box with water, causing it to keel over.  The next wave topples the box, picking it up and slamming it against the sand.  The cardboard gives way, one side opens.  The tide uplifts and the sand collides with the box.   As if a metaphor for life, the box is flattened.

Now flat, it gets carried back out and floats on top of the water.  Being lulled into a reprieve as it rocks back and forth as a child in its mother’s arms.  I lose sight of the box.  Saturated, it is conforming to the waves ebb and flow.  It starts to sink slightly below the surface.  Once more into the spin-cycle, it washes up onto the beach collapsed.  The flammable sticker is almost legible. The box rests.