The man in the box

I saw him dead. In the hospital.

“Are you a relative?” the nurse asked and I lied, “yes, I’m his Granddaughter.”

The nurse asked me to wait. There was no one else waiting. The hospital smelt of sadness and less savoury things. Despite there being no sun inside everything was a bit faded. The walls, the sheets, the people. It was too hot and I could hear people coughing. I waited a long while. I was calm when someone arrived to talk to me, almost bored.

In a haze I remember listening as the ‘someone,’ who wore a white coat, explained he had “passed away.” What did that mean?

“He had died.”

They asked if I wanted to see him and I said “yes.” I don’t know why. I was led down long echoing corridors, painted with browning yellow paint. The room was a little cold, the light harsh, it smelt of disinfectant. There was a cardboard box on the table next to the door. “Reverse flip end chipboard” I noted in a distracted, distant way. I know about boxes. I’ve always been surrounded by them. Too many things, not enough people.

Davison’s body seemed thinness and cold. His eyes weren’t lasers anymore, his fingers weren’t moving. This wasn’t Davison anymore I decided. He was no longer here. The nurse asked if I wanted ‘a while’.

“No, I’m done,” I snapped.

“What am I going to do with your stupid ashes?” I mean, I was glad to have something to do. Pleased he had trusted this to me. But what? What can you do with ashes?

Mum said I had to sprinkle them somewhere. He liked his living room most. I can’t sprinkle them there. And anyway, that word, sprinkle. No one in the history of the world has ever said. “after my amazing life, at the end, I want to be sprinkled.”

He left me his songbook. The songbook was a huge, heavy, messy, bound book. It was stuffed with odd sheets of paper, some of them receipts from restaurants with two or three lines jotted on the back, some letters from friends with whole songs written on them. Odd postcards and tickets and the occasional photo dropped out as if clamouring for attention. On every available space something was written in his untidy handwriting: some just observations, or sketches or phone numbers and addresses, but mostly music and lyrics. I couldn’t understand how I deserved this more than anyone else. I wasn’t sure what to do with it.

At school, I tried to think but my brain just got foggy. A collection of random thoughts drifted through my head all day.

I remembered Davison telling me about writing lyrics and saying John Lennon’s “Across the universe” was inspired. I sang in my head and stopped at the line:

“Thoughts meander like a restless wind inside a letterbox”.

“I know what you mean.”

Then thinking about the letterbox, I remembered my father getting a piece of wedding cake, through the post, in a small, white, wedding cake box when my cousin got married in America. They had sent a slice to everyone who couldn’t be at the wedding.

I remembered we had a box of wedding cake boxes somewhere. I remember thinking “only in this house could we have a box of boxes.” It took a while to find it.

My mum had given me money to buy flowers for the crematorium. “’Cos dead people really need stupid flowers.” I spent the money on envelopes, stamps and black ribbon at the post office. That Saturday, I remember looking at them, arranged on the shop counter in front of me.

Underneath the counter was a white box with a design of pale blue bells around the side and an unhealthy coating of dust still clinging to its top. The box, its faded shipping note stated, contained;

“100 Flat packed plain cake slice boxes with greaseproof inserts. Completely plain so that your own logo, sticker, decoration or ribbon can be added. Can be sent through post. Size: 83mm x 23mm x 55mm.”

Between serving customers I counted out 57 of the cake slice boxes and put the others back in the blue bells box.

There, sitting at the counter on Christmas Eve I worked through the day, writing a short note and putting it into one of the envelopes the boxes would go into. Then in careful handwriting addressing the envelopes. To places he lived and liked and had holidayed and loved, to places of his musical triumphs, to friends and lovers and pupils and special fans.

After I closed the shop and it was dark outside I sat dropping a little pile of ashes into each box. Dividing them like I was cutting cocaine. Then tying the little boxes with a strip of black ribbon and placing them into an envelope. As I did so I quietly chatted to his remains. Yea, I know, that’s a bit weird, its not like I thought he was listening.

“So you seemed an odd and rude old man, but it seems lots of people liked you, or at least your music. Amazing! It’s weird, you had a frigging google page, but no one was there when you died. Mum wants a bit of you in the garden, which doesn’t sound too great to me ‘cos you’ll end up covered in rat droppings, but she says you liked it there so it’s fine by me.”

 I wipe my eyes.

“And even if you were rude to me and made me play music and didn’t tell me you were dying, I still hope you’ll be happy where you end up.

“If there’s a heaven maybe you’ll end up there, God seems to like music, hymns and stuff at least. You’d make a wicked harp player mind. I can just imagine you bullying some poor angel; “sing this!, no higher! No! it’s in six-eight! There might be sins I guess, I thought you might be a pedo when I first met you.”

I close another envelope.

“And if there isn’t anything, then at least you’ll get remembered in a few places. Across the universe. Heh, and you were almost right, weren’t you, you said you’d end up in a box and you’ve ended up in 57. I hope that song’s right; that it’s ok to die if someone loves you.”

“Stop making me cry” I tell him in an annoyed voice, “how am I supposed to get you sent off if I can’t see the stupid boxes?” He was always annoying.

So I pack the 56 envelopes into one large box, ready to go to the post office after Christmas and place it on the counter. The last box I drop into my coat pocket to give to Mum.

Then I turn the lights out. I’ve stopped crying. Strangely, I’m feeling better. Not happy, but in my head things feel tidier. I lock the door and walk slowly along the road.

It’s icy cold and the wind stings the tracks the tears have left on my face. I push my hands into my pockets, feeling the small box there. Most of the houses have lights in the windows. People are warm at home celebrating Christmas. I imagine in my head someone saying, “one two three, two two three.” I gently squeeze the box and sing. You got your way in the end didn’t you.