a necessity

It perched on top of the cabinet that housed our TV and gazed down on the rest of the room. If you had looked at it long enough, it might have begun to seem smug and slightly imperious, like a judge swathed in his somber black robes, surveying his court. It was smug because it knew that I wanted it dearly.

Whether or not you believe that boxes can possess things such attributes is entirely up to you, but I'm telling you that this box did.

The box seemed to have been engineered with the sole purpose of tempting me-- the chipped paint, the smooth curve of the lid, and the ancient-looking hinges-- they all held some undefinable allure. I coveted that box. I knew that coveting was a sin, thanks to various Sunday School teachers and Bible Time every morning in Mrs. Matthews' second grade class, but such a box was so wonderful that God himself probably couldn't help yearning for it. And if God coveted it then surely he wouldn't condemn me for a bit of wanton sin...

It had the most wonderful things inside of it: a ticket stub, various dingy old coins, several pocket knives, various shiny pins shaped like planes and crosses, a pendant commemorating the 75th anniversary of Coca-Cola, and a picture of my cousin Reginald looking for all the world like the sort of kid who got beat up every day during lunch period for his money. It was in short, the best thing ever.

The concept of a box of treasures is pretty much integral to a childhood. Basically, the whole idea here is that it is useless to try and raise a child without one. Absolutely useless. Don't even try it.