The Green Enamel Box

The back garden smells of wet loam and lemon rind. The air holds the temperature of old copper. I stand near the cedar fence. A film projector whirs, casting only a square of vibrating dust onto the peeling patio floor. I kneel and touch a wooden spool, noting the precise grain pattern of the cedar wood against the paint. It is a spool designed for something else. I trace the weight of the spool in my palm. A door opens, the jamb revealing another door set exactly into its face. This inner door has no handle, only a dark glass pane depicting a single white thumbprint. I feel a tenderness toward the empty, hinged box resting beside the inner door. The box is cedar, lined with velvet, and holds the smell of old tobacco.