Bow

2/9/20

Sundays are boxes with bows: mysteries glammed up to entice a willing explorer to take a chance. True, the box is not wrapped, just bowed. So maybe the cardboard exterior isn’t the prettiest, but the pow—a twist and turn of pink & purple ribbon—makes any beige cube rather intriguing.

Sundays are little boxes with bows because even if they’re empty you still have something. You still have flourish & spectacle. Also, you’ve got a fucking box. With imagination à la Spongebob that box becomes anything. Mainly it’s the cat’s box. Or possibly it’s the kid’s box. But, in the end, it’s one thing, packed with something else, providing a piece of change for the weekend’s end.

I found Marie’s engagement ring. It was tucked under the washing machine by the front door. We’re both overjoyed to have it back. I didn’t mind it being gone, but I know Marie feels at ease now. She feels like the sentiment is still contained. She has said multiple times it’ll never come off ger finder again, and I believe it.

What birds we are, swooping and flaying, taking our shiny things with us until we die or pass them along. And maybe it’s not the item but the shine. Or, perhaps, what the shine represents. In the end, however, it’s not a matter of glitter & glitz. It’s a matter of longevity.

And we & the ring live on.

I love my wife, daughter, sister, mom, dad, & cat

E.B.