The box looked deceptively innocuous. If asked, the simple brown box couldn’t have possibly told anyone, of how dad had carefully wrapped it with cello tape, strip by strip. Of how he had intended the box to protect what was inside it during its journey of a thousand miles. Only in me, did the box inspire, the firm grip of his fingers on my forearm, in a strange crowded place.
As I carefully open the box, I see their harmony in action. Mom’s generous love, tightly wrapped by dad’s sense of economy; strong arms protecting a vulnerable soul. A particular box, attracts me more than the others and the lid is opened. In a flash, the hitherto contained fragrance of the snack, engulfs the universe, along with memories of mom!
The boiling oil, roaring every time she dropped the batter;
The newspaper, readily laid out, to absorb the oil from the snack emerging from the pan;
Above all, the memory of being home.
Through my blurry, tear stained gaze, the box still looked deceptively innocuous.