羅伯特·富爾古姆/Robert Fulghum
The cardboard box is marked“The Good Stuff”.The box contains those odds and ends of personal treasures that have survived many bouts of clean-it-out-and-throw-it-away that seize me from time to time. A thief looking into the box would not take anything. But if the house ever catches on fire, the box goes with me when I run.
One of the keepsakes in the box is a small paper bag. Lunch size. Though the top is sealed with duct tape, staples and several paper clips, there is a ragged rip in one side through which the contents may be seen.
This particular lunch sack has been in my care for maybe 14 years. But it really belongs to my daughter, Molly. Soon after she came of school age, she became an enthusiastic participant in packing lunches for herself, her brothers and me. Each bag got a share of sandwiches, apples, milk money and sometimes a note or a treat. One morning, Molly handed me two bags. One regular lunch sack and the one with the duct tape and staples and paper clips.
“Why two bags?”
“The other one is something else.”
“What's in it?”
“Just some stuff-take it with you.”I stuffed both sacks into my briefcase, kissed the child and rushed off.
At midday, while hurriedly scarfing down my real lunch, I tore open Molly's bag and shook out the contents. Two hair ribbons, three small stones, a plastic dinosaur, a pencil stub, a tiny seashell, two animal crackers, a marble, a used lipstick, a small doll, two chocolate kisses and 13 pennies.
I smiled. How charming. Rising to hustle off, I swept the desk clean into the wastebasket-leftover lunch, Molly's junk and all. There wasn't anything in there I needed.
That evening Molly came to stand beside me while I was reading the paper.
“Where's my bag?”
“What bag?”
“You know, the one I gave you this morning.”
“I left it at the office, why?”