The Red Box of Dreams

I ordered the box as a Christmas gift for one of my step-granddaughters. Several of them are in their mid to late twenties and at least two are living in apartments, either alone or with a boyfriend. Some live off and on with their parents. I don’t try to keep track, but instead ask their mothers for a good mailing address and let it go at that. I don’t know what possessed me to order a red wood box to give one of them. I imagine a gift certificate from Sephora would be more in line with desires and expectations.

When the box arrived, a dusky dark red, heavy wood with a hinged top, old-appearing clasp and a satisfying plainness about it, I changed my mind and decided to keep it.

I need an empty box to fill with the nighttime dreams so full of symbols and hidden meaning. The red box caused my dead imagination to revivify with frail breaths I very nearly missed. My mystical red box of dreams. It arrived just in time.

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