Sitting on her canopy bed, Christmas morning, Conchita Jones scribbled on a piece of ruled notebook paper. After she was finished writing out her request to God, she tore the paper out of the notebook then carefully tore around the writing on the piece of paper.
She opened her God box, folded up the jagged piece of paper, and placed the folded paper in the box.
One more week and it would be 1992, and then sheâ€™d let herself look at the contents of the box. She always waited until the end of the year. It seemed pointless to look every week: she knew God took his time answering her written prayers, and it would be useless to check the pieces of paper in the box more often than that for an answer.
She shut the box and surveyed it. It was full of memories, she thought and cupped it in her hands. The box was painted in her favorite color, hot pink. On its top, there was a battleship, gray feather with black fringes. She turned the box over and looked at the quote by Emily Dickinson written in black paint on the underside: â€œhope is the thing with feathers on it that perches in the soul.â€ She knew it was a sentimental message, but the message still made her misty reading it.
She turned the box over again and held it close to her chest. Seeking comfort, she balled up into a fetal position in bed and tightly cradled the God Box in her arms.