I never noticed the zipper
hidden over my chest bone
until after you died.

It’s funny how things like that
go unnoticed, unused
for so long.

Now I grasp the pull,
drag it down,
reach into my chest cavity,

spread the ribs, just a bit,
dig among soft organs,
and pull out a box.

It’s a wooden box,
ornately carved, beautifully
stained a dark mahogany.

It’s dry as I lift it up
and gently slide out the
tongue-and-groove top.

             The first thing that reaches me is the scent—
             that perfect mix of baby powder, sawdust,
             coffee, and laundry soap.

             Then I hear the whisper of an echo
             of your familiar voice
             calling me once again.

              I close my eyes against the tears
             and feel a hug, the best hug in the entire world:
             comfortable and strong.

              Before I can slide the antique lid
              back into its waiting grooves,
              I see your bright, genuine smile flicker before me
                           like a ghost.

(Editors’ Note: “The Wooden Box” is read by Erika Ensign on the Uncanny Magazine Podcast, Episode 31B.)

© 2019 Annie Neugebauer