deep in the meadow, there is a box.
it contains a letter.
the letter is from a man who never had a name. i like to think he was not a handsome man, but gorgeous in ways undetected by the path of average society. his eyes were always puffy from crying and his lips were always swollen from chewing but his heart was always locked away like only the heart of a beautiful man could be.
deep in the meadow, past the rotting remains of an oxen cart that maybe used to carry turnips from the mountains to the valley towns for market selling. or maybe it was goat milk. or hawks' eggs. past the rotting cart and past the abandoned house with no chimney, the box can be found in the tree stump of a huge old maple among termites and ants and wasps that have overtaken the old tree as a way of reclaiming the earth. it's funny how life has a circularity that way. what once belonged to only the tree itself was taken by man, and once man passes by onto the next land, insects and birds move in to benefit from what man left behind. it's a refreshing cycle.
the box is not ornate or decorated, but it is sturdy and untouched by the sensual pincers of termites. it is a well- made box. not the kind that holds sin or treasures or secrets, just a letter that no one bothers to hear anymore.
i've read the letter many times, as has my whole village. but i've never seen anyone live like it was true; i've never seen anyone change the way they brush their hair or make their soup or buy their clothes because of this letter.
i know the letter is true, and that's why i built the box.