THE MYSTERY BOX

THE BOX CAME LARGE and tattered, marked with directional signals pointed in every direction as if Santa himself had taken the tour to deliver it. A humourous note card with "LOVE" in red emboldened letters and someone's scribbled artwork hearts drawn on and around the "send to" placard signaled that it was indeed shipped to me. My name and the directional "side up" and "left side... right side" were clearly marked on the cardboard box dropped on the doorstep by a delivery robot drone seen wheeling up to the door from the corner curb to drop roll the heavy item that tipped it a bit as it deposited its package in a completed delivery before rolling gingerly away. A little red dot glimmering on the RING DOORBELL image captured on the video told us that it recorded the drop spot before leaving our property. "Grandmom!" the familiar voice of my youngest grandson rang in the hollow cavity of the foyer in his excitement at the discovery. His overwhelmed review of the robot delivery man... instead of John, the mail carrier, brought his eight-year-old frame trotting from the upstairs bedroom to the front door before anyone else could move. The door was flung open and as he tugged and then rolled the box inside his dad appeared from his own bedroom to lift and carry the box to the dining room table. "What is it?" I asked, pulling the knots out of my back after having been sitting for so long in front of the morning news and weather. They read the label in a scramble of mushed utterances craning their necks to catch the words on each pastie applied for the travel stops made by the package. "From Alaska," it says, "Alaska Air Lines," then after a brief pause and turn of the package, "Here's another one... Dallas Fort Worth" and "SATO." My own head tilted a bit to one side and a suspicious eyebrow raised itself without the support of a questioning word. "Here it has your name, mom." I took a deep breath and motioned for them to open the box. Within seconds the labels were bypassed and taped ends ripped and cut away. "Be careful with that knife, we don't know what it is... don't damage it!" I bellowed from across the room now. My son raised then, in one quick jerk on the remains of the outer packaging, slid the interiors free of the container. Their faces turned to drop-mouth and bulged eyes at the sight before us all.

It was an army duffle bag. The markings on the box and the string attached flight tags told the story of its origin and destination. My duffle bag of nearly ten years ago had arrived. It was lost some time over a flight arranged by the ticket agent at Dallas-Fort Worth Airport and my destination back home from training. I had argued with the agent that there was no need for my return trip to take me to Alaska. I was headed to Detroit from Dallas. The discussion had taken over ten minutes before she cleared the machine of her original ticket assignment and entered a "change route" stopover order for me to "layover" in Tucson, Arizona until the flight came back from Alaska. Because of the amount of time it had taken for her to make a correction on the original flight plan, the line had grown in length for enlisted personnel waiting to return home from the military base. "Here it is... take this and step aside." She tagged my bag and set it in motion along the baggage transporter. I took the ticket folder and stepped aside as my classmate chattered with her over his need to make it to Seattle, Washington without going to Fairbanks, Alaska. As I headed out to verify my route I heard him say he was cashing his ticket in. He was going to drive a POV home. Over the travel time for me to leave Dallas Airport, arrive at Tucson, and call for a ride to leave the airport. My bag had not arrived. I was in Tucson with no personal effects other than what I had on and what I carried in the rucksack. The baggage claim office at Tucson International Airport wrote a "lost baggage" slip and I was gifted a check for $50. The two-day layover and one additional check for the arrival of my duffle bag went unresolved before boarding the flight to Detroit Metro Airport with my military rucksack. I'd had to explain to my section chief and the commanding officer "WHY I LOST MY UNIFORMS and equipment, before being reissued a reduced items list of garments. The bag, along with uniforms, equipment, personal effects, perfume and toiletries, with some travel orders were never reclaimed until the arrival of the mysterious box marked LOVE. No sender other than the city of Fairbanks decorated the upper label.