Wooden Box

It was a beautifully engraved wooden box.

The grandfather had in inherited it from his father. But he would not let anyone touch it. It was a prized possession that he would not share with anyone. Many years later I learnt that grandfather’s father was a rich man but all his wealth and valuable possessions were appropriated by his venal relatives, friends and hangers on. He was too sick to take care of anything, even his only surviving son.

The grandfather kept all his valuables and documents and his daily diary in the wooden box.

“What do you write in this diary?”

“Everything that happens; everything I do during the day.”

“Why?”

“I want your father to know everything about me and my possessions when I leave this world.”

“But why don’t you let me touch the box?”

“Well, it is for your own sake; you don’t know but there is a cursed book of magic in the box.”

“Book of magic? I would love to read it.”

“No, never. The book is cursed, anyone who even looks at it turns into a big bat.Do you want to turn into a bat?”

“That’s not possible?”

“Yes, it’s true. So, don’t ever touch the box.”

Forty years later I sold the grandfather’s house. It was in a dilapidated condition.  Everything had to be removed. I found the wooden box. It had lost its shine and beauty. It was still locked. I don’t think my father ever opened it.  

Impulsively I brought it with me. But I did not open it. I just could not open it.

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Pondering word is “Box”