Mystery Box – You wake up one morning to find a beautifully wrapped package next to your bed. Attached to it is a note: “Open me, if you dare.” What’s inside the mystery box? Do you open it?
If you look closely, under the wrapping paper and ribbons, you can see who sent it … or at least, whence it originated.
“Hall of Records,” says the label. I’ve been searching for this stuff since I first had that dream, the one in which I am climbing an endless ladder in a very tall building until finally, I get to a steel door. Which is solidly locked. On which is a sign that says “Hall of Records.”
In all these years, I’ve never been able to go in there, never been able to see what kind of information the room contains. And now, here it is, next to my bed. The records. The lost memories. The suppressed memories. The experiences too painful to remember. All the buried stuff.
I look at the box, pick it up and give it a good shake. It’s heavy and solidly packed. No rattling, nothing loose inside. It must be crammed to its limits.
I’ve made my decision.
I carry it to the attic, pull down the creaky old stairs. Up to the attic I haul that heavy box, grunting with the strain of it. I have lived this long without knowing all the details of the worst days of my life. I think I can slide through the remaining years equally — and happily — in ignorance.
Now, I’m going to get some coffee. Mince pie anyone? Oh, and Merry Christmas!