Under the Peonies

by Sparks In Shadow

Photo by Horia Varlan via Flickr

 

Under white peonies, the red box lies buried. My son can’t explain why.

He changed the box’s position in his room each day for months, as if Nana’s gift for his tenth birthday didn’t fit. But I never saw him open it himself, or heard him test the chiming balls it held. She’d hoped their gentle sound and pastel cloisonne would soothe.

One morning, tugging my sleeve, he led me outside with the box and a trowel. He dug, covered it with earth, went indoors. I wonder if crimson lacquer protects against moist soil.

I wish my son could speak.

The Prompt was, “the red box” – from Julia.


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