stuyvesant.

“Can I keep the box?” I asked, no one in particular.
The box was empty but the shiny paper lining was still in it.
Crumpled at the top.
Tiny shreds of tobacco collected at the bottom.
This was before they began to write “Smoking Kills.” on cigarette boxes.
The lady, who we were visiting, said it was okay for me to keep the box.
—
At home, I would literally stick my nose in the box from time to time and inhale as deeply as I could. That sweet aroma would linger on in my nostrils and I closed my eyes to make the influence stay longer. It was like sneaking into a forbidden parlour.
—
Later, when the scent had gone, I would use the box to store my notes in it.
I used to make notes on scraps of paper. Small ones, torn out from books, junk mail and the like. They fit smugly in the box.
—
But then one day the box filled up to capacity.
And when I re-read my notes I realised that I had been writing about the same thing over and over. The scent remained, though.