My Box I'm a little boy, holding a little box. On the box is a scrap of paper with a childish scrawl: My Life . I hold that box so tightly, hiding it from others, allowing only a few to peek inside and share my treasures. There are times that I am forced to open my box and share. Many days I take my box to Work and carefully open the lid to my box only a crack, sharing a bit of my strength and skill in trade for food and shelter and perhaps a bit more that I can call my Wealth. With my closest friends, or those that I wish were my closest friends, I open my box sporadically, quickly, picking out a few treasures that I think might please them. But I'm quick to guard against injury to my box. Even a critical word, or a stony glance or a surprised question will cause me to slam my box shut and I run to the nearest corner to pout or castigate myself. With my dearest partner, my lover and wife, I share much more of my box . I confront some of my fears and prides and let her