The Ugliest Box

I didn’t know that my grandfather passed away until after I checked my Facebook feed on that early November morning. We had just moved into a new house, and I was getting ready to unpack my room, thrilled for a fresh start before my senior year of high school. Grandpa Hefty was my best friend. We’d sneak to the kitchen during family parties to make root beer floats, and if we were especially sneaky, we’d escape the droning parties altogether and walk to the movie theater a few blocks away. Memories like these gripped me as I went to find my dad, tears overwhelming my being as I choked on the realization that I wouldn’t be able to see these memories the same way.

In his own grief, it was obvious how much my dad regretted not telling me sooner. He didn’t know how to tell me. Dad was still coming to terms with it himself.

Grandpa didn’t have time to rope a decent will together. My dad didn’t get the rolltop desk he wanted for years and years. My brother missed out on the infinite James Bond DVD collection. I lost the only thing I wanted, the only thing I felt as if would maintain a real connection between myself and my late best friend.

When I was seven, I determined to make my grandfather an incredible Christmas present, since I just recently found out that twenty-five cents wasn’t enough to buy him a new collectible car. I thought it was ridiculous, but, I knew I could make something much nicer. So I pulled out a paint set and set to work on a small jewelry box. I painted it yellow, purple, and pink - which to a seven year old, looks like Picasso himself was a patron to my art. Once that was finished, I found an older bottle cap I’d been saving (you know, the ones with a code for a free drink!) and put it in the box. What a present, indeed.

You would have thought I gifted my grandfather the key to the city, the way he boasted over his new “treasure chest,” as he called it. I was never prouder. Despite the horrific coloring of the box, grandpa told me that anything I made with my heart and hands was beautiful, and to never stop creating.

For a long time, I mourned over the fact that this jewelry box was nowhere to be found. I felt as if I lost my last connection to him. I never did find it again, and all of his things have either been given to family or donated. My grief wasn’t relieved until my grandmother invited me over for lunch one day, and she laughed about the box, exclaiming that she “wouldn’t be surprised if he took it to Heaven with him.”

And I’ve always loved that idea. So, I may not have that box, but every time I set a pen on paper, I recall his wish for me to create beautiful things for the rest of my life, and I set out on a mission to make him proud.