The box that sprouted from oak

The box that sprouted from oak

By Jermaine T. Jackson

Do you ever feel like the world is laughing at you? Like they’re all in on a joke you wouldn’t understand? It’s an odd feeling, somewhere between wanting to know and wishing you didn’t care. You tell yourself it’s all in your head, but isn’t everything? The hard truth was that none of it really mattered because their opinion of me was really my opinion of myself. All the voices, all the paranoia, all the burning ears combined to make me feel as if they noticed me.

Nobody noticed me. I think that’s why I took the chance to work all third shifts from home instead of coming into the office at dawn. It’s not like I had anything else to do with my time, outside of people watching and pretending to have hobbies. I thought about getting a dog, maybe a cat, but a fur baby was faux attention in my book. That was a bond that ran deep for many, I’m sure, but rang hollow for me. The same held true for many of my failed hobbies: painting, writing, collecting, antiquing, repurposing, knitting, crafting, even researching the odd little world of a train schedule enthusiast. I had become frustrated with the extracurricular activity of trying to find my niche.

Finding out who I was or what I liked felt more like a part-time job than an organic journey to self-realization. My own skin felt like it was rented from a second-hand thrift store, three times used and returned because it didn’t fit anyone else right. I felt foreign in my own home, and out of place on my own couch, staring blankly into the black mirror that is my too-wide television. In the corner, just along the edge of the screen, I saw a dog in the reflection barking at the giant oak tree across the vacant lot. Another squirrel, no doubt, but it was something new to look at, so my curiosity was piqued.

Stepping out on the front porch I was greeted by the humidity first and the consistent barking second. Two seconds on the deck and I already missed my AC, yet another reason I stayed inside. The dog’s barking was somehow making the heat worse. Thankfully, the canine was whistled away by its unseen owner not long after my emergence. It was then that I noticed it, something on the limb of the old oak tree. I stepped down, out of the shade of my porch, to get a better look. Using my hand to block out the sun beating down on me, I could see it clearer. A brown paper package sitting out on the limb. Not wedged, or hanging by its twine—sitting on the branch as if it were placed there purposefully. The heat became too much for me to bear, and although intrigued, I retreated inside.

I resumed watching from the second floor of my home with a quality pair of binoculars, a souvenir from my bird-watching phase. I couldn’t help but gawk at the oddity, wondering how it got up there, why it hadn’t fallen, and the most obvious question—what was inside of it? It shouldn’t have gotten to me the way it did, but it was the little things that kept my attention. Outside of it teetering on the limb, the paper appeared to be pristine, clear of any marring. And although plain, the package seemed to glow with a dim hue. It was probably all in my head again. The paper was most likely catching the light at a flattering angle . . . but still.

It wasn’t long until I was checking on it daily, waking up each morning for the next week hoping I’d find it on the ground amongst the oak’s protruding roots. Something told me I’d be disappointed, and every morning I was. It didn’t make any sense, the valley I lived in was prone to strong winds and it should have fallen the same day it was put up there. Maybe the twine was tied to the branch underneath the box, giving it the illusion of sitting out on the limb. But why would someone go through the trouble to do such a thing? Why did I care so much? It was just a dumb box.

A dumb box that had me outside in my skivvies once again like a crazy person, hurling objects at it; each try falling shorter than the last. I had a mean pitch back in high school, but my accuracy was never the best. It would help if it wasn’t so damn high. Unfortunately for me, the mighty oak lived up to its name. I thought about burning the thing down but decided against it. Not because of the proximity to my house but the possibility of burning the box. I began to scheme on how I could get my hands on it. How I could bring it down to my level.

Assignments from work began to pile up along with the dishes. My thoughts raced, and soon I was unable to sleep, choosing to spend my time looking at the box. I wanted to know, I needed to know, I demanded to know what was inside of it. Each second it sat upon that limb it mocked my very existence. It was more important than me, it meant more to me than my own well-being, and it knew it. The damn thing owned my thoughts. All my wonder and curiosity derived from and died with that box.

The morning came and my eyes burned, each blink a microcosm of what sleep once meant to me. Determined, and fraught with rage, I marched out onto my front porch and cursed the box. Belittling its value as I know it had done to me countless times. This was all show and no substance, though. I knew what I was doing, hyping myself up for the inescapable conclusion. The first thought I had when I realized I was obsessed, and the same I regularly dismissed, doubting my own abilities. If I really wanted that box, I was going to have to climb after it.

I didn’t bother stretching or preparing myself, the anxiety was too great. I was ready to go now. I had climbed trees barefoot as a kid, but I will admit the calluses had softened since my younger years. Neither this nor the jagged bark and honeydew deterred me from reaching that box. I felt more alive than I had in years climbing that mighty oak. I felt like I had purpose for the first time, like there was a driving force pushing me towards my goal. It may have not been sent to me, but it was mine now. I was meant to see inside that box, I deserved that box; I was working my ass off for that box.

Branches nicked at my body, one giving me a large scratch across my cheek. My blood and sweat began to mix with the honeydew, creating a muddied substance. I pressed on, never taking my eyes off the prize; even with all the foliage, my focus stayed set on that box. Each strain, each flex of my unused muscle groups was another accomplishment I celebrated in silence. Soon, I was within striking distance of my just reward. Shuffling along the edge of a dubious limb, stone in my throat from anticipation, I stretched out. It was then I heard it. A sound that left me cold.

As the branch beneath me broke, I leaped for the box, hoping to bring it down with me. That hope stained my being. Through every lashing and splinter, I yearned to see what was in that box. My heart ached, as I fell further from my first obsession. Freefalling between limbs and leaves, body catching and breaking on jagged bark. There was a moment of clarity, a breath before the inevitable, where the sun split the canopy and the warm light shined upon me. In that relief, I found my thoughts solely focused on that box. The shame of such thoughts made my eyes well until my cheeks streamed. A life full of regret and none bigger than that box.

Everything I could have given this world; I gave up for something I never had.