A Package for Mr. Cunningham

“Sign here for the package please, Mr. Cunningham.” The mailman said nonchalant.

“Yes sir,” Charlie replied, not revealing his nervousness of having received such a package. It had no return label, and it was certified mail. As he closed the door to his small one bedroom apartment, his mind began to reel at the ideas of what the package could be for. He had paid his bills on time, paid all his taxes. He didn’t need an attorney for anything that he could think of, and he had already done his jury duty recently for a small local case of theft. He put the package down on his small four-seater dining table and took a seat for himself.

His mind raced. Did he dare open the package now and discover what misfortune lay inside or did he allow the package to sit on the table and collect dust, not to be opened yet. If he opened it, it could be something horrible, something unexpected in this life he had so carefully crafted for himself. If he leaved it closed, it would remain on the table as his very own Schrodinger’s cat. He was not prepared for what was inside, either way.

While he was sitting and allowing his anxiety to build, his Bernese Mountain dog, Ruphus, came up to provide some consolidation. To the dog, the anxiety seemed a bit much and he wasn’t sure why a small package had to have such an intense effect on his owner. He nudged his hand and Charlie obliged to give the dog multiple head scratches and rubs. It calmed both Charlie and Ruphus down severely.

However, for Charlie there was still the package. Wrapped neatly in brown paper, the edges were nearly creased. It was like a certified present that Charlie did not want any part of the opening. So the package stayed on the table, untouched by man or dog. Charlie decided his best bet was to leave the package where it was for now and go about his daily life. The next step of this life for Charlie was going straight to bed. The anxiety of receiving the package had been enough to put him in a deep state of unrest and now all he wanted to do was sleep. Ruphus joined him in bed.

-

The next morning, Charlie started his day the way he always did. He made sure his teeth were brushed and after a shower, he put on his deodorant. Then he exited his room and went into the living room for a small apple for breakfast, which was in a bowl on the table. Right next to the package. Charlie didn’t let it faze him though, he was planning on living out this day as a normal human being with no pressing matters living in a suspicious brown paper box. He fed and watered Ruphus, all the while not paying any attention to the package in his peripherals. He even turned on the television to watch the morning news. Ruphus enjoyed this normalcy while it lasted.

When Charlie went to work doing social media marketing for a local counseling center, he did not encounter a single counselor about his package and did not seek any help for his anxiety that he was currently choosing to ignore. No, Charlie spent his day asking the people of the world “Do you feel okay?” while silently asking himself the same question. He did not feel okay. He felt scared and cornered and very much felt like whenever he chose to open that brown paper package, it was going to ruin his life. He found these thoughts illogical, as he had never done anything or known anyone to bring such chaos into his life, and yet the thoughts remained.

He finished his day at work and went back home where his anxieties originally laid. He looked at the box, finally accepting its permanency in his life, and he sat down next to it.

“Just open it,” a voice told him. He looked around his apartment. Ruphus was sitting on the couch.

“Excuse me?” he asked to the general apartment.

“Open it” Ruphus responded, “It’s only a box. It can’t hurt you.”

Charlie was struck with awe and terror - the last thing he needed was this much of a mental break, “Oh, but it very much can.” Charlie said, “It could be something wrong with my taxes, or a request for more jury duty, or it could be something from the government telling me I’m a person of interest.”

“Then you are a person of interest,” Ruphus rebutted. He thought the whole situation was ridiculous, “Open the box Charlie, for both our sakes.”

“Right because if my dog is talking to me,” he looked at the box again, “I can’t quite be alright.” Charlie paused for a second, allowing the final silence of the apartment to fill the area. Then he turned in his chair, now facing his packaged oppressor. He took the brown paper box in his hands. It was lighter than he had remembered from the day before, which lifted some emotional weight off of him as well.

He slowly opened the package, trying his best not to rip the brown paper it came folded in. Once he got the paper off, the box was white, and once he got the box opened there was only a single form inside, along with a single wilted rose.

“The Living Will and Testament of Serena Cunningham,” Charlie said aloud. His grandmother had died. As he continued to read, tears slowly streamed down his face in catharsis. She had left him every single asset. Every minute of stress and anxiety melted away into a warm grief. Ruphus rested as well.