The Box
- 8 hours ago
- 1 min read
On Sundays, on grandmother’s table, there was always a box of chocolates. The thick cardboard lid. The tissue paper on top, to be lifted slowly so it wouldn’t make a sound. Underneath, the chocolates lined up, each one in its dark paper cup.
No legend. You chose by looking at the shape.
We would stay there, finger hovering. Searching for clues in the folds of the chocolate. Afraid of the liqueur, of the bitterness, of the pink filling that had once made us twist our mouths.
Grandmother didn’t wait. She reached in and took one. Bit without looking. Sometimes a small grimace. Sometimes her eyes closed for a second. Then she laughed, and took another.
She didn’t have a favourite. Her favourite was whichever one had landed in her hand.
She used to tell us, half joking, that the fear of the wrong filling is almost always more bitter than the filling itself.
And besides, she would add, the chocolate on your fingers only lasts the length of a Sunday.
