The Box and the Bench

The warmth of the midday sun was pleasing to Crawford Steadywell, as he made his way through a fairly crowded New York City street. The yellow of the taxicabs reminded him of bumblebees, darting to, and from a nearby hive, with the hive being the city itself.

With Crawford, on this sunny day sojourn, was a beautiful crafted box. He cradled it, as a mother would an infant, now to heavy to hold, and despite its beauty, be seemed agitated. Agitation became pique, as he nearly stumbled over a crack in the sidewalk, that the lovely full box, obscured from his view.

After regaining his composure, he righted himself, spotted a group of benches in a nearby park oasis. With the determination of a starving man, eyeing much desired sustenance, he nearly sprinted for the empty bench, nearest the entrance to the park. Before seating himself, he placed his precious cargo, on the opposite side of the bench, away from him.

After a while, feeling unburdened, and much less encumbered, he began to smile. His mood shifted from dour to slightly jubilant. His eyes bounced from one object to the next, taking in all that was around him. Offering pleasing smiles to passersby, and admiring the boxes they carried with them. Forgetting himself, he wanders off, entranced by the millions of boxes in the city, of all shapes and sizes, beautifully decorated, to pleasantly plain, each one found his eye, and carried it away, along with Crawford.

Short seconds, turn in to long minutes, as Everett Collier walks up to a partially unoccupied bench. It strikes Everett, as odd, why a box, beautifully decorated, in a satin cloth that shines like, rich caramel, wrapped with a bow, that could have been made of chocolate, rather that linen. Why this box would be left, unattended, undervalued, and disregarded.

Everett, being a kind and protective man, assumed that whoever was in custody of this box, would not leave it so, in such a casual manner. Some great ill must have become of him. Perhaps, Everett mused, that he was the unfortunate victim, of falling piano, or a stampede of dervish-like patrons, running herd-like into Macy's.

He chuckled to himself, these scenarios, while far-fetched, would be nothing to keep him from such a treasure. He would regard it as part of him. As a gift, for that is what it truly is, from God, and regard it as such. Much unlike the phantom owner, who hours now, has not come to reclaim his gift.

Everett stands, looks down at the box, as if to silently entreat the box to allow him to safeguard it. To his its new protector and giver of care. A moment passes, and a smile glides across Everett's face, as he leans down, and gently picks up the box. Gently cradling it as Crawford did, only with great affection, and with far more regard. As box, and new owner walk away, contentment mixes with belonging, and a glow can be seen, everso slightly, to come from the two.

The next day, the sun is as warm as it was the day before, as Crawford gingerly makes his way toward the spot he stopped at the previous day. Only he seems puzzled, as if he'd mistakenly come to a different bench. Yet this one the same bench, near the entrance to the park. His puzzlement, turns to concern, and concern melts to regret. And in this moment's clear revelation, he realizes the one true constant, that exists, in every culture, in every corner of the world.

A treasure given, once neglected, soon will be gone forever, and in its place, regret will flourish.