The Cigar Box
by Marilyn Hallett

She was feeling very uncomfortable about all this. She really had not had much say in the decision, but here she was, ensconced in an immensely comfortable granny flat in her daughter's home. She had a fairly large lounge, which she had furnished with much of her original furniture around her, a reasonable sized bedroom with her treasured four-poster bed, plus a very modern bathroom - royal blue and white - a colour scheme she had always wanted. Her daughter had left a few odds and ends from bygone days in the granny flat - a framed family jigsaw puzzle, Singaporean ornaments, an African shield - these odds and ends being family treasures that her daughter had hijacked for a while and was now returning. And of course the big plus, her daughter and her family living right next to her, and most importantly, wanting her there. She had the privacy she needed, she had her own entrance, and the company if she wanted it. But she couldn't help this persistent nagging feeling - wondering why she had been brought here. "Do they need a built-in babysitter? Do they want to keep an eye on me? Does it cost them less financially having me "on site" rather than in a retirement village?" But she took it all in with good grace and grateful thanks that her family had insisted on having her to live with them.

It was a striking home. A Spanish style house, built on a flower farm in Tokai. It looked like the top of an ice cream cake - a "bright white" colour with the sides kind of spilling down to the ground. It gave off the feeling that it had always been a happy house - a house where the occupants were at peace. One thing that continually caught her eye was a mosaic picture on one of the walls next to the swimming pool - a stunning sea scene. Someone had obviously spent hours creating that masterpiece - it was a very peaceful, masterful piece of work. The garden was low maintenance, being paved, with many pots strategically placed giving it a green, colourful and lush feel - miniature gardens and fruit trees, plus a small vegetable patch - right outside her own window. "I think I could get a lot of fulfillment out of that patch - I must ask if I can claim it as my own".

She had not yet unpacked all her boxes. She had not rushed into it, because she had not been feeling very well. In fact, she had not been feeling well for some time. She could not put her finger on it, and she certainly had not told her daughter, because she would have dived into "organized" mode and would have made a list of every conceivable specialist and consultant. She would have gone right through the list until she could get to the bottom of things, even if it was just nothing.

Although, she had a nagging suspicion that all was not well, she felt that her life was not complete - not just yet. When she looked back on her life, she knew that she had lived her life pretty much to capacity, she had a wonderful family and generally, life had been good to her, but she knew that she had a sense of unfinished business, something else she needed to do. She wondered whether it was her creative being that was crying out to her - she had longed to be creative, but put it down as a foolish thought. She believed that she had the ability to paint, to create masterpieces on canvas, but kept putting herself down and telling herself that she would probably be mediocre. For the fear of failure, she had put all ideas of painting aside, because if she tried it and was not successful, then it would be a devastating blow. But what did all this have to do with unfinished business.

She was a warm woman, normally free and open, her eyes reflecting the signs of laughter, that tinkled spontaneously on every possible occasion. An easy person to have around, and though she was slightly suspicious of it, she knew that this was one of the reasons that her family had asked her to come and live with them in their home.

Putting all her thoughts aside, she thought that this would be a good time to start unpacking some of her boxes, and get some orderliness into the chaos around her. She thought that she would approach the task bit by bit, and the first thing to do would be to clean one cupboard at a time. She did have an inkling of an idea of where she would like to put her belongings.

With the windows wide open, and the breeze gently blowing through on this God-given summer evening, she gathered her cleaning materials, and chose the biggest cupboard in the bedroom and started slowly wiping down shelves and cleaning the outside and inside of the cupboard doors. When she got to the bottom shelf, she found a box right at the back of the cupboard and gingerly brought it out and examined it. It looked familiar. It was a cherrywood cigar box, beautifully carved with intricate leaves and flowers on the top of the box. It must have been left behind by the previous tenants of the granny flat - she really ought to try and get in touch with them, it needed to be reunited with its rightful owners.

Being inquisitive, she opened the box and peered inside. There was a yellowed piece of paper inside the box, and not being able to help herself, she opened the piece of paper and read the contents: "Dear Colonel Jones. I would like to take this opportunity of introducing myself. I am the widow of Major Bert Collins who served under your command during the Second World War in Egypt. My husband recently passed away, and I thought it fitting to let you know that you brought him great peace towards the end of his life, even though you were not actually with him. Bert always had the greatest respect and admiration for you, and most of all, because you taught him, not only to be an honourable and forthright officer, but because you continuously told him to follow his intuition and his dreams - an unlikely trait in a soldier. He did follow his dreams, and he became a great wood carver in his latter years. I have great pleasure in sending you one of his personal favourite achievements - a cigar box that he carved himself - not too long before he passed away. He always said that you enjoyed the periodic cigar, and I hope that you will receive as much pleasure out of this gift, as he did in making it. With kind regards, Muriel Collins".

She sat down, with the letter and the now-familiar cigar box in her hand, and immediately felt a warm and fuzzy feeling, simultaneously feeling as though a light bulb had gone on in her head. She recalled an expression of her late husband "If you dream it, you can do it". A wave of relief spread through her, and she thought "This is it. I can do it. This is my unfinished business. I have to paint. I have to create at least one masterpiece. Something to leave behind. If I don't do it now, I could go to my grave without the sense of completion". She pressed the cigar box and the letter to her breast and said "Thank you darling wherever you are". At once, she had a very clear vision of her husband standing in the corner of the bedroom. The vision was incredibly real. He was there looking after her. A source of comfort. Colonel Jones, her beloved husband.

© Marilyn Hallett