Tiny Stories

The brown paper package is lying on your doorstep, and a shudder of excitement goes through your body as you anticipate opening it. The courier came half an hour ago, but you were in an online meeting, a hui about a hui, a discussion you needed to have, as unresolved tension threatens to destroy the team. Today you’re WFH, and you’ve boiled the jug, a steaming cup of Earl Grey waiting for you on the table, a single square of chocolate your morning treat. There’s a certain heft about the package, a weight you hadn’t anticipated, as you gently slide a knife through the tape that holds the cardboard together. You’ll keep the sturdy box, storing it beside the toolkit and the family history, old photographs of the kids when they were young and cute. The curly strips of wood fall onto the floor as you lift out the crystal ball, its surface shining, specks of glitter embedded into the pale blue glass. It seems to hum with an energy, as the warmth of your hands clasp the ball, embracing it, ...

There are two other celebrants in the room, as guests settle into their seats, music playing gently in the background. One sits in the front row, just an arm’s reach away. He is tall and handsome and suited, a visitor from Auckland, the city I have abandoned. The second is at the back of the room twiddling with the technology, my script at his side. He is also suited, a silver fox whose voice you’ll hear on the radio, honeyed and inviting. Today he is the funeral director, alongside a woman I’ve got to know well these last few months, as we bow reverently to the casket at the front of the chapel, eight, nine, ten times together. One is open; one is homemade, a lilac so pale and cool; one is adorned with a sword; one is smooth and curved. I am thankful there are none that are tiny, a task I’m unsure I could carry through. I am in the middle of the eulogy when he walks in, catching my eye. He is also suited, this special man that knows my family, has held my parents as they lay silently ...