Jason Fraley
The box of abundance arrives on my front porch, brown exterior unmarked and smooth. In my pocket, a utility knife quivers. The blade knows how to slide silently. The corkscrew how to twist a steady hole. The screwdriver in case all else fails but blunt force. A handwritten note indicates that, once open, sunflowers will spring out, several feet tall. That goldfinches will return like sun-bleached youth until the seeds are pecked away. Even now, the maple’s branches hang heavy with brightening leaves. But here’s what you must know. Keep walking. Leave the box in the shaft of late summer’s light. If it warms to the point of bursting, then let it. Let the cardboard fade and fade until thieves mistake it for a piece of moon. Just keep walking. The birdsong will sound like it is receding. That’s because it is.
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Jason Fraley is a native West Virginian who lives, works, and periodically writes in Columbus, Ohio. Current and prior publications include Salamander Magazine, Barrow Street, Jet Fuel Review, Quarter After Eight, Mid-American Review, and Okay Donkey.