Magic Box

Thoughts on Life and Death from an Unlikely Source

It was a warm day in February.  The morning paper had a picture of kids playing basketball with their shirts off.  I opened the windows and looked for things to do outside.

Extraordinary sunshine on my face as I walked across the yard with a load of laundry for the clothes line.  I was absorbed my task when a distant train whistle made me look up.

A vulture was flying over the field.  Something in my mood--the life-is-good feeling from the relaxation of winter--and the train sound I've always loved, made the vulture's circling, wobbly flight seem beautiful.  I watched until he disappeared over the trees.  Then I remembered the magic box.

A few years ago we had the septic tank cleaned for the first time.  The man who came out found the outlines by probing with a metal rod, then dug where he thought the door should be.  It was a couple of feet from where I was standing under the clothesline.

When we maneuvered open the heavy concrete door a cloud of odd-looking flies flew out.  Noticing my astonishment, the man said, "They're always in there if the tank is healthy."  We stared down at the brown water.  "No chemicals or anything," he said.  "It does what it does all natural.  Some people call it the magic box."

Suddenly it did seem magical:  strange insect life down there amid the everyday miracle of decomposition.  It was like opening a grave and being able to see the decaying corpse as a wonderful part of creation.

The man backed his truck across the yard and started suctioning the tank.  My mood faded with the smell.  I was sorry.  It's so rare to think of death and decay with anything but fear and revulsion.  It takes unexpected magic--something like a warm day in February--to make the vulture's flight seem beautiful.