chocolate is a verb

colors, flavors, whims and other growing things

the wooden box…

the wooden boxAmong my mother’s prized possessions was a wooden box. The sides of the box are roughly carved with relief panels of historic, mythic and biblical scenes – Daniel in the lion’s den, sword-bearing knights on horseback, the king’s son standing before the tumbled cascade of Rapunzel’s hair. The hinged top, a solid block of wood that tapers upward to a peak, is polished silky smooth. The box is lined with unevenly-cut tan suede, and the tiny metal clasp and keyhole suggest there was once a matching key.

On the bottom of the box, deeply etched in pencil, are the words “Carved by Frederick Todd” and while my mother never said (or perhaps I’ve forgotten) where she got the box, she always maintained that Mr. Todd was blind.

As Dorothy told it, she was in her 30s, recovering from the tragic end of an intense love affair when a friend fixed her up on a blind date with the man who would become my father. The first few times Les called, she refused his request for a date. But at last she accepted and he came to pick her up at her apartment.

He walked in, greeted her, and went straight for the box on the mantel, picking it up and rubbing the smooth top against his cheek.

That was the moment, she said, when she knew he was The One.

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