The little box on the edge of the table always was a lure to me. All of my life, I wanted just once to take a peek inside of the dark oak box. My mother cringed each time I walked by and ran my fingers over the handcrafted wood. Each time I asked her what was inside, she told me to mind my own business and leave it alone. When you’re a kid, that drives you insane with wonder. Sadly, now that I’m grown, I still can’t get the box out of my head.
Recently, with my mother’s death, I found that I am now the owner of that tormenting box. How would I be able not to open that little piece of my childhood that drove me insane? The moment I had the thing in my hand, I placed it above the fireplace, staring for hours at that tiny box. What could be inside? My mother never hinted at what it was, other than do not ever open it up. I asked her many times if she knew that firsthand. All she would do was look at me like I was the devil.
On the second day of owning the box, I couldn’t take it any longers. My curious side got the better of me. They say that curiosity kills the cat, what if that was the case, I would have died years ago.
In the darkness of my bedroom, my fingers traced over the small wooden treasure. Opening this box was as exciting as a kid on Christmas morning. There was never a lock on the box, just one of those latches that flip up, and it’s open. So many years, I would flip it up and down, scared the squeak would get me in trouble. If my mother ever heard me, she never said a word.
“What the hell is wrong with me. Just open it,” I whispered.
The latch now flipped, I slowly opened the lid to reveal a letter. All I could think was why the hell was this something I could never see as a child. Mad, I grabbed the little slip of paper, opened it, and sat back with tears running down my face as I read the words placed there in my mother’s handwriting.
“I trusted you,”
Pandora’s box contains your biggest fears, and inside was the one thing I never wanted to lose. Mothers trust.