The Rabbit in the Box
I
Until I was about nine years old, I lived with my mother and older sister at my grandparents’ house. My grandparents were relatively young when we were growing up—roughly in their late fifties—so they enjoyed taking an active role in raising us.
We lived in a cozy colonial-style home that felt huge to a kid. It was full of rooms, corners, and little nooks that continued to reveal themselves over time. The house sat on five acres that opened onto a cul-de-sac. There, all the neighborhood kids congregated before finding their way to our dinner table each evening.
All of our friends loved our house. It was basically built for us kids: we had an inground pool, a hot tub, fruit trees, berry bushes, a basketball hoop, a dozen bikes and scooters for exploring, and a finished basement for sleepovers. We even had a screened-in gazebo where we would watch scary movies late into the night. Yet, if you were to ask the kids now what they remember most, it wouldn’t be any of those things. Instead, they’d tell you about the unusual items my grandfather collected.
Much to our amusement—and our grandmother’s displeasure—our favorite items included a parking meter, a coffin, a vault of ancient coins, and a stash of cassettes he bootlegged from the local library (although that’s something we aren’t supposed to talk about). At some point, he even acquired a replica of a pioneer wagon, and displayed this in the driveway where he had previously installed a working stoplight.
But the item us kids cherished most was a playground spring rider he once brought home. It was a pelican—old and monstrously heavy—which he restored and installed in the backyard. And where did he find all these things…? Well, we still don’t really know.
Our grandparents gave us many good memories, but the one I return to the most is about a small box I once found.
II
I must’ve been about four or five when I found the box. It was tucked away in some long-forgotten spot in the living room and I was probably looking for something else when I stumbled upon it.
The box was stout and almost square, roughly the size of a shoebox. It was wrapped in worn black leather, with a tired, crusty handle on the side, making it look like a bloated briefcase. The box was clearly meant to open, but two latches kept it firmly closed, giving it an air of mystery.
I sat and inspected it for a long while, running my finger along the outside. I felt the goosebumped texture of the leather and traced thin lines through the dust before testing the metal latches. They were dulled and discolored with oxidation, but they still wouldn’t budge. I put my ear to the case and thought I heard a noise. What could be inside?
Thinking the weight might tell me something, I lifted the box only to discover how heavy it was. I was about to drop it.
“Careful,” a voice said from behind me.
I turned my head to find my grandfather standing in the doorframe. I don’t know how long he had been there. He must have just been rounding the corner when he saw me pick it up.
“Put that down—I don’t want you to break it.” He started walking over.
I set the box down, and looked up at him. “What’s in it?” I asked.
He was about to answer but stopped himself short. He thought for a moment before giving me a playful smile. That made me more curious.
"What’s in it?” I asked again.
“Oh, well…” he started coyly. “Nothing interesting, really. I don’t think you want to know.”
But I did want to know.
“Well,” he continued, changing his mind, “It’s a secret. I think I can tell you, but you have to promise that you won’t pick up the box again.”
That sounded exciting enough. Deal.
He bent down and whispered to me, “There’s a rabbit in the box…”
“A rabbit?” my eyes widened.
“Yes.”
I thought about that for a moment. “Can you open it?”
He shook his head. “I can’t,” he said, straightening up.
I thought again. “But why?”
“Because if I open the box, then the rabbit will escape!”
That only made me more curious. A rabbit? Like, a real rabbit? How did it eat? How did it get in there? My grandfather was likely unprepared for the storm of questions I unleashed, and while I don’t remember all the questions I asked or how he answered them, I do remember believing him.
I continued to pester my grandfather about the box long after that, but he wouldn’t open it. When pleading and bargaining got me nowhere, I tried to pry it open myself when no one was looking—but that never worked, so I eventually stopped. Besides, I didn’t want to frighten the poor rabbit anyway. So from then on, whenever I visited the rabbit, I would just kneel down and press my ear against the box. If you listened closely, you could hear it sometimes.
After a while, I began to suspect that my grandfather might be messing with me; I tried asking trick questions to get new information, and that went about as well as you’d expect. I would ask my grandmother about the rabbit too, and she followed his lead, telling me the same story and sending me back to him for the details. My grandfather never budged, even long after he probably figured I outgrew the story.
We eventually moved out of my grandparents’ house when I was about nine years old. We still visited often, but the less I saw the box, the less I thought about it. Over time the memory faded, and years passed before it crossed my mind again.
III
A few years after we moved out, my grandparents decided it was time for them to sell the house. Us kids had grown up and the house that once held so much life grew quiet. Meanwhile, the property still demanded the same intensive upkeep, but with age that became difficult for two people to manage. I was fourteen when they decided to move. So as able-bodied teens, my sisters and I were enlisted to help along with a few friends we brought along.
Us kids had two jobs. The first—and arguably the most important—was one we assigned ourselves: clowning around. This entailed scaring one another with my grandfather’s collection of rubber spiders and snakes, or wearing the costumes that belonged to the pine trees in the driveway—his way of giving each one its own personality. All the while, we hounded him for the origin stories behind the strange items we kept finding, before inevitably arguing over which sibling gets the pelican.
The second job was the most boring: real work. We had to strip a four-bedroom house down to its essentials and keepsakes, sorting through mountains of stuff they accumulated over decades. To accomplish this, the adults divided up the work and us kids were paired off to help them.
I was mostly assigned to help my grandfather, although I’m not sure he’d call it that. I couldn’t mow a straight line to save my life and dropped more items than I safely moved. I wasn’t much help with de-gunking the koi pond either, since I was too squeamish to step into it.
I helped him empty bikes and tools from the sheds in addition to an ungodly amount of furniture from the house. Whatever we couldn’t rehome to friends or family was hauled to the dump—which we visited more times than I could count. At the very least, it made for good stories later (though if I hadn’t been fed so well, there would’ve been riots).
By this point, I had two sisters, and both were usually helping my grandmother pack and sort. On the rare occasion that my grandfather didn't need me, I joined them to help out. It turned out that their work was no more fun than mine; they went through everything—organizing, labeling, and tossing heaps of junk—until no nook of the house was left untouched. And sure enough, it was on one of those days that I spotted a familiar item from the corner of my eye: the box.
The box sat in a pile with other antique items to either be sold or junked, and even though I hadn’t seen it in years, I recognized it instantly. Its magic came rushing back.
It was only a few feet away, and I could see that the latches were, for the first time, undone. But before I could even process it, somebody sorting that pile suddenly opened the box without warning, revealing to me what I had wondered about for over a decade. Inside the box was a typewriter.
A typewriter. A typewriter? Obviously I knew it wasn’t going to be a rabbit…but a typewriter? It was hard to imagine a more ordinary, useless item. I walked closer to the case, frowning.
I saw that the typewriter rested in a felt lining as pitch black as the leather on the outside. Inside smelled funny. I looked at it for a moment. I didn’t know much about typewriters, but I could tell it was old and still in good condition—surprisingly clean for its age.
I gently placed my fingers on the typewriter and felt the cold, oily metal. My hands moved over to the keys, and I slowly pressed a few down. The sharp clacks startled me for a moment—they were much louder than I expected them to be. I pressed a few more. The mechanisms glided smoothly.
I was only able to do this for a moment before my grandmother, working nearby, saw me touching the typewriter and waved her hands, urging me to stop.
“That typewriter is very old,” she said, walking over to me. “It’s still in good condition, but very fragile. I don’t want you to break it.” She extended her arms and I handed the case to my grandmother, who smiled, unknowingly. I went back to packing and tried not to let it bother me.
Wasn’t I too old to be disappointed by such a silly thing? But I was still frowning. Had she forgotten that a little rabbit lived in there?
IV
Once in a while I still think about the box, and despite the disappointment I later felt, it remains a warm memory.
For a long time I truly believed there was a rabbit living an entire life inside that box, and that belief fed my imagination and deepened a sense of wonder about the world. It didn’t matter if the rabbit was fiction; it served as truth because I treated it as such.
The mystery—and the wonder it stirred in me—vanished the moment the box was opened. I got my answer, but at the cost of ending the story. As more of our world continues to be explained, less of it remains to wonder at. So maybe we should be more deliberate about the boxes we do open.
I suspect this is something my grandfather understood, even if he wouldn’t have said it that way. That, or he just didn’t want me to drop the typewriter.
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