The Parcel

He heard his bedroom door open. Seconds later, his mother's voice scolded him, telling him to get out of bed. Did he know what time it was? He rolled over, mumbling something incoherent. His mother's footsteps retreated and the door closed. Some time later, she shouted she was going out and that there was a parcel for him. The front door slammed then all was silent.

Eventually he emerged from his room, dressed in t-shirt and shorts he'd just thrown on, his feet still bare. His hair was ruffled, his eyes hazy with sleep. He padded into the kitchen and began to make coffee. Looking for his cigarettes and lighter, his eyes fell on the small parcel on the table. It was addressed to him in red marker pen. He frowned. He wasn't expecting anything. He rubbed his eyes, yawning. The stamp wasn't familiar. It looked foreign. He picked it up to examine it closer. The postage was paid in pounds and the stamp had the Queen's head on it. It was from England.

A slow smile spread across his lips. It could only be from her. Who else would be sending him anything from England? He turned it over and opened it. Inside was a card, his name elegantly penned on the envelope, and a long gift box. He put the box down and opened the card to make sure it was from her. The picture on the card was simple, the greeting in block letters. The message inside was written in English. His eyes ran to the bottom and sure enough there was her name, in her own pretty, flowing handwriting. He recognised some of the words. Of course she would write in English, not wanting to make it too easy for him. 

He smiled, reaching for the gift box. He slid it out if its card sleeve and lifted the lid.