Several weeks ago I returned from work on lovely Friday to find a slip in my mailbox. This slip informed me that the dutiful post man regretted not find me at home and requested my presence at the island of lost packages to receive a package which some one had addressed to me. Conscience of the great honor conferred upon me by this invitation I made haste to accept and the next day found me in possession of a surprisingly long and narrow package from Ukraine. which I was fairly convinced contained a teacup. The reason for this lurking suspicion was that I had signed up for a tea cup exchange and was eagerly awaiting that package. Once I had returned to the comfort of my own home the contents were revealed to me and before my waking eyes I saw, not a teacup, but a vase. A large wooden vase.
After some time spent wondering why I had been presented with a vase from the Ukraine I decided that perhaps my teacup exchange partner, being from Ukraine and perhaps not the best at English, had thought that she was signing up for a vase exchange or perhaps even a generic exchange (a resurgence of the barter economy perhaps). I came to this conclusion after using the skills gained from many hours spent under the careful tutelage of Agatha Christie to weigh the evidence.
- The package was addressed to me specifically so it couldn't have been meant for the previous residents of my apartments
- I don't know anyone in Ukraine or who could be in Ukraine
- I had just moved so only family and a few friends had my address
- I had not been known to express desires for vases Ukrainian or otherwise
On Monday after work I drove to Boston to see Othello and did return until late. As I strolled happily to my mailbox I saw a worrying sight. A small, teacup sized, package sat on my mail box, addressed to me and not from Ukraine but from Tennessee. My spirits rose at the receipt of such a lovely package, yet I could not restrain some perturbation of spirits when I thought of the vase. From the fertile soil of my imagination sprung up many possibilities including ancient Ukrainian curses coming to rest upon my brand new apartment and Ukrainian drug lords breaking in that very night to reclaim the costly Ukrainian drugs stored in the vase.
Fortunately enough none of these extremities came to pass and I made an uneasy peace with the presence of the vase. A corner of my mind, however, still wondered, perhaps would always wonder, where did the vase come from?
Several weeks later, on my birthday, I was speaking to my sister on the phone. She excitedly asked whether I had received my present.
"What present?" I asked, the light of understanding beginning to illuminate that corner of my mind which had never ceased to hope for an explanation.
"The Vase! Did yo not get it?" she cried with touching sisterly concern.
The vase now rests on my bookcase, unaware of the confusion and fear it had evoked in its new owner.
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