The Green Lunch Box

The Green Lunch Box

by Kimberly Andreadis

September 22, 2024

“You will not be happy until you find it,” Kim leaned across the breakfast table and looked directly at him. He frowned and shrugged. “It’s no big deal.”

She knew that the lunchbox had been Themis' prized possession. And now they couldn’t find it among the many boxes she had packed for their move to their new home in Sarasota—their “retirement home.” She felt so guilty; had she left it behind?

She and Themis had spent the past two days unpacking until they had emptied the very last box. The packing paper and empty cardboard boxes were scattered around them on the floor.

To her delight, they had found all of her treasures in the process. The brightly glazed porcelain plates were intact, reminding her of all the wonderful family meals they shared in the past, before her children and grandchildren got too busy to visit. Her mind conjured glimpses of her daughters as babies, then young children, as she had unwrapped the plates from the tissue paper. Warm chubby babies, their giggles; first days at school, parties, proms, births; holidays spent together. The sweet and colorful images spilled over her like a warm blanket, all reflected in those colorful porcelain plates.

The last few boxes contained her father’s manuscripts, poetry, and short stories which he had left to her before he passed away. The lovely scarves her mom had left her when she died. It was all there—all her treasures. So many memories, happy ones and sad. But all the "stuff she couldn’t part with" was accounted for.

Kim and Themis were both sentimental; neither of them could stop missing the friends, parents, and siblings who had passed.

Outside, the screech of tires from the mail truck jolted her out of her daydreams. Back to reality, she thought. And the lost lunchbox.

Themis looked as if he had lost his best friend. He bent down and rifled for the third time through a large box with packing paper. The sun shone through the kitchen window and reflected on his bald head. She was sure she had packed it, or had she? She could visualize its metal exterior, the light green paint, and the large handle—not your everyday lunchbox. It was old, an antique. She couldn’t stand to see him unhappy.

Themis did find his great-grandmother’s sewing spindle, his father’s old corncob pipe, and his grandfather’s medal from WWII. He was happy to see these items that provided a connection to his Greek heritage and his family.

But no lunchbox.

He looked at her with a wistful, faraway look in his eyes.

“Did I ever tell you the story about the lunchbox?” he asked her. “Do you know why it is so important to me?”

“You have told me some of it; tell me again,” Kim said. She thought telling the story would make him feel a bit better, but she knew it would make her feel worse. He went on with his story.

“I was six years old. My mom, dad, grandparents, and my big brother and I had fled Egypt in the early 50s and moved to my great-grandmother’s little house in Rafina, Greece.

As I look back, it was a huge adjustment for my family," Themis sighed. "They were forced to leave; they feared for their lives. My mother later would tell everyone, ‘We came with only two suitcases.’ They had to leave most of everything they owned behind in Egypt. Even their assets had been frozen by the new government.

My brother and I loved the adventure of moving to a new place. We had very few possessions, but we never went without a good meal. My parents were resourceful.

Every day, my brother and I were marched off to the little school close to the house in the village. Mama packed bread and scallions for our lunch every day, and the woman at school gave us a large piece of cheese. That was our lunch every day. One day, my great-grandfather gave me the lunchbox. It was made from metal and painted lime green with a broad handle. It even had a place to lock it. From that day forward, I carried that lunchbox with me—not just for lunch, but everywhere. If we were playing in the fields, I had my lunchbox. Or just going for a walk to the harbor, I had my lunchbox. I loved it—it was my only possession apart from a few articles of clothing.

I collected wonderful things in that lunchbox, like rocks, shells, and bugs. I was a goofy six-year-old kid, and that lunchbox distinguished me from the other kids at school who brought their lunches in paper bags.

 Somehow, I knew that, even though we had lost so much in the move to Greece, I now had this one possession that was mine alone. When I walked along those dusty village streets with my lunchbox in hand, the townspeople would say, ‘Here comes the Doctor,’ and that became my nickname."

He smiled. "I remember feeling very proud to be called ‘the Doctor.’ After that, how could I put it down? When I carried my lunchbox, I was the Doctor. Silly,” he laughed. “It made me feel important.

When we left Greece for the United States, the lunchbox was left behind, just as so many things had been left behind before. It was left in our little house in Rafina.

The trip to America as an eight-year-old consumed all my attention. The first snow, the wonder of it all. I forgot about the lunchbox.

Years later, we visited that little house in Greece, and I found my lunchbox in my grandmother’s closet.

As you know,” he concluded, “I have had that lunchbox ever since.”

Kim chimed in, “And you actually became a Doctor of Philosophy! Wow—the seed was planted when you were six years old and carrying that lunchbox around with you.”

Kim felt so proud of her husband. Before retiring, he had a wonderful career as a physicist. He had a long list of accomplishments, including being a loving husband and father.

He was a strong and proud man. Yet at this moment, she visualized him as the little boy in a harbor village in eastern Greece, carrying his green metal lunchbox and being called “the Doctor” by the townspeople.

Themis nodded and smiled. “Hey, I think we may have overlooked a couple of boxes in the garage. I’ll bet I’ll find it there.”

He got up from the table and walked through the laundry room to the door leading to the garage. Kim waited at the breakfast table, consumed with guilt.

She said a silent prayer and sighed. Some things could never be replaced.