The wooden bench felt warm under me and I rested my hands beneath my thighs to get all possible benefit.  It was still cold enough to make my breath steam, though it was sunny.  The woollens draped and wrapped around me, however, kept me in a snug cocoon as I observed the defrosting world around me.

Trees, reaching their bony hands to the sky, looked naked.  The misty grey that had drenched them for months was momentarily gone, amber light playing over them now, tickling them and warming their dark places.  On the ground around me, what had been simply mud with green in during the last month began to shyly solidify. The sun touched everything, without warming it, but giving it spirit for what was to come.  Spring was coming.

I was alone.  Silence bounded through the park.  This was not the perfect silence, the silence that you get at those 3am mornings of your soul, the silence that pricks you and stings your ears.  Traffic could be heard softly through the trees; birds did their bird noises, files buzzed.  Silence, the imperfect harmony in your ears that consoles and steadies.

This I happily observed as I waited in the sun.

Two figures approached in the distance, insubstantial across the grassy expanse.  A dog, a big yellow Labrador, shot away from his owner and bounced across mud and green bits before thumping into me, tail hammering at the warm concrete, forepaws and hind wiggling independently of each other in excitement.  He licked my hand and sat, tongue lolling about in his mouth like a large pink sponge.  This was not new to me.

Hello, old friend, his eyes winked up at me.

Hello, my friend, mine smiled back at him.  There is no need for words in dog communication.

Together we watched as his owner picked his way across the damp grass.  The occasional mud splash or unattended slip told us that winter had not yet released its grip.

The dog dashed forward after a few minutes to lead his master safely to our concrete island in the mud. He returned to my side, steam-engine tail threatening to do serious damage to my foot in his happiness to be out and about.  He smiled at his master.  I followed suit.

Human communication requires the use of words.

‘If I were polite, John, I would stand up, ‘ I said, ‘but at the moment, I’m less polite than cold.  This little warm spot I have found may prove a test of our friendship, because I pay it more attention than you at the moment.  The nuances of human interaction require me to make some sort of physical signal of familiarity – a handshake, a hug, a kiss on the cheek – but as my canine friend here is satisfied with a smile and thumping his tail on my foot, I hope you will be happy with the same. Your dog here and I have made progress on the nature of humanity by simply coming to this agreement.  You don’t have a tail, of course, but you can kick me if you like.’

‘Interesting,’ said John, who considered kicking me for only a moment before he sat down.

We three faced the park and considered the grass before us.

‘This is a warm seat,’ said John.

I nodded my assent.  The dog wagged his.

‘Muddy,’ said John.

I nodded my assent.  The dog wagged his.

‘But sunny,’ said John.

I nodded my assent.  The dog looked at us both with disgust, and trotted away.

‘Was it something I said?’ asked John, and laughed.

We let the silence wash over us for a while, a moment’s contemplation in the sun.

‘I brought something for you,’ said John eventually.  The words were library quiet in the übersilence.

I turned to him as he pulled something out of his pocket.  It was a small tin, plain, and old.  He handed it to me, and waited.

‘It’s a tin, ‘ I pointed out, amicably.  He smiled.

‘Yes, it’s a tin,’ he answered.  ‘It’s a very special tin.  A friend gave it to me.  I thought you’d find it useful.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed.  I turned the tin over in my hands.  It was old, and empty, if shaking it was any way to judge.  ‘I can put things in it.  Very handy, very useful.  Thank you.’  I shook it again, just to check.  I wondered if I was supposed to put buttons in it.

‘It’s not just a normal tin,’ said John, after a while. His voice held that special tone that current affairs presenters use when announcing the main story. I attempted to ignore it.

‘Buttons,’ I muttered, tapping the tin. It didn’t look like it could hold chocolates.

‘Look,’ said John, ‘Why would I give you a tin just to put things in?’ He looked at me earnestly.

‘You think I have too many buttons? You are ashamed of my wayward button-keeping methods?’

John sighed, and stared out at the grass once more.

‘Buttons,’ he muttered, and sighed again.

I held the tin up to the light, and wondered if it was the sort of gift one was expected to proudly display in lounge-rooms.

John continued to consider the grass.

‘You know, you should look to yourself in the keeping of buttons,’ I hinted.  ‘One can’t be too careful.  A tin, for instance, could certainly come in useful…’

The grass continued to keep John occupied.  I began to suspect that he was not as concerned with the problems of urban lawnery as he seemed to be.

The yellow lab dashed madly across in front of us.

John turned to me.

He opened his mouth, as if to speak.

I raised my eyebrows encouragingly.

He stopped, and turned back to the grass with a frown.  The dog dashed madly back.  He didn’t have to worry about buttons.

John turned to me again.  I decided to help him out.

‘Look,’ I said.  ‘This unhealthy obsession you have with buttons is causing you to worry, I can see, so why don’t I just give you back the tin and we’ll say no more about it.’

‘Forget buttons!’ yelled John, and turned away.  The birds seemed startled by this uncharacteristic outburst, and stopped their twittering.  The traffic seemed unconcerned.

We sat in silence again.  The dog dashed past us once more.

John stood up.  His shadow loomed over me.  It blotted out the sun.  I moved.

‘This tin,’ he said in a calm tone, ‘is a special tin.  It’s a tin for keeping emotions.  You stick the bad feelings in, and you don’t have to worry about them any more.  Fine?  Fine.’

‘I see,’ I said.  ‘No buttons.’

‘Not a one.’

I considered this.  ‘Surely – I mean, emotions aren’t big – a few small buttons would fit in –‘

John sighed, and walked away.

‘I’ll see you Tuesday!’ I called after his retreating back.

The dog dashed madly after him.

The next day, I decided, in justice to my friend, I would see exactly what this tin was about. I had been experiencing a few unpleasant emotions lately- an argument with the boss here, a bad, bad relationship there – and it simply couldn’t hurt to try. There didn’t seem to be any instructions, but putting bad feelings away where you don’t have to notice them – what modern day, super-in-touch person couldn’t do that?

I felt marginally better in minutes.

Over the next few days, I put more and more into the tin (a conversation with my mother was particularly plentiful – I had to squash things in a bit). Things seemed to be going well. I could now enjoy all those happy thoughts without the regrets to clutter them up.

I guess.

On Saturday morning I sat down at my coffee table and looked at the tin. It interested me that such a plain little tin could hold all those angry, sad thoughts and feelings. I would have at least expected Thursday night’s load to put a couple of dents in.

When I picked up the tin, it felt light.

I opened the tin. It was empty.

I put the tin down.

All those prickly bad feelings were gone. I held the tin up to the light, prying, just in case one little baddie had remained. It was barren, dry. Someone had poked a very small hole in the bottom, and they had all slipped out.

I sat at my coffee table, the early morning Saturday sun peeking in at my windows. The tin remained empty, no matter how much the sunlight filled it.

That night, I sat and sipped my hot chocolate, and wondered how I should feel about the tin. It still sat on my coffee table – I hadn’t known how one should treat an emotion-sucking tin and had left it in a nice patch of sun all day. Now, as night moved in, was probably an appropriate time to deal with it.

I sat in front of it and sipped my chocolate. The wood of the coffee table glowed as the tin quietly luminesced in the light. I clutched my hot chocolate tighter- it didn’t feel so warm as before.

‘Look, tin,’ I said. ‘Stop being freaky.’

I realised that this was probably not a reasonable request to ask of an emotion-sucking tin.

I sat back and thought. All of my good feelings, the warm, fluttery ones that still rested in my heart, felt awfully still. The idea of a tin that would take away all of my troubles should have been a good one, but the warm-and-flutterys didn’t jump up in comradely union at it.

I reached out my hand. The strange lightness of the tin as I picked it up sent a chill through my fingers, and I tried to remember the thought of the warm cocoa in my hand. The chill continued up my arm, gradually gripping my shoulder. I dropped the tin, snatching back my hand in the most nonchalant fashion I could manage.

So, the direct approach didn’t work.

I tried to ease the chill in my arm by stroking the warm memories I had to life. They were not eager to flutter. The chill began to annoy me. There was a feeling hanging around, looking over my shoulder, politely clearing its throat to get my attention.

I opened the tin. The emptiness sat innocently looking back at me. It transfixed my eyes. Those bad memories – down a hole, wandering about, able to attack anyone. Gone. My arm throbbed.

Tears dripped into the tin as my vision blurred. That barren tin seemed like a mouth; open, hungry. I thought about the things I had put in there- little fears, pains, embarrassments. Times when I had made a fool of myself, times when people had hurt me. Then I thought of what I had chosen to keep; hopes, fears allayed, assurances that I was good despite my faults. Why I loved the people I loved. They were worthless without something to value them against.

A small lake of tears had formed in the tin, and had begun to dribble out of the little hole. I dipped my finger in and took a tear. I looked at it, saw its surface shine in the lamplight. Slowly, it absorbed into my skin, into me.

My warm thoughts began to wriggle again. I scooped more tears up in my fingers, and felt the warm feelings writhe and squirm in the stark wetness. I came to a decision.

***

The next time I saw my friend John, I thought I would give back the tin.

I found him in the middle of the park, squatting in the mud and fiddling with a little paper boat.

‘An experiment,’ he said, and went back to the boat.

I decided that waiting was a better option than squatting, and walked over the my bench on its little concrete island.

Winter had sloshed back into the park again. The grass was a mere greenish stain on a lake of mud, brave little tufts holding their own against the wintry tide. The trees shivered in their nakedness, arms thrown over their heads and fingers clawing at an endlessly grey sky.

The yellow lab was a streak of colour as he rushed around, going nowhere. I watched him as he dashed around the trees. It made me wish that I had waterproof paws.

Eventually he trotted up to me, carefully shaking his fur free of debris before licking my hand.

You smell, I thought, as he got closer. Wet dog is not an odour you would choose to bottle.

I smell, he smiled up at me. He didn’t seem upset at the dismal marketing potential of it.

I considered sitting on the bench, but the cold look it was giving me was discouraging. The dog looked at me and shrugged. This standing around business was not as warm as it could be. He ran off without apology.

I stood and watched him dash around the park. The greyness of the day didn’t seem to affect him. He was just happy to have room to move; the trails of mud and water (I smell! I smell!) were an added bonus.

Wet feet or dry feet; how warm you are is up to you.

I walked back to where John was still forlornly poking at his little boat.

‘Is your bum wet? I don’t see how it couldn’t be,’ I remarked. He answered with a Look.

In the spirit of true camaraderie, I gave up the joys of dry trousers and squatted next to him.

‘It floats,’ he observed, ‘but it doesn’t go straight.’ He pushed at the boat to demonstrate. Its course was indeed lopsided; one side had got wet when it had been put in the water and was clinging to it.

‘One side has got wet and is clinging to the water,’ I pointed out. I was rewarded with another Look.

John reached out his hand and tipped the boat on to its other side. It slowly tipped back. He repeated this a few times, until the boat remained on the other side.

‘It’s a case of getting the soak ratio right,’ I said. ‘When you put it in, one side got drenched, and now because you’ve tipped it so many times, the other side is more drenched. You need to get them evenly soaked.’

John grunted, and stared cheerlessly at the boat.

‘Of course,’ I added, ‘you could have just used wax paper.’

I was the recipient of another Look.

I stared at the boat. He stared at the boat.

‘It’s hard to put the boat in so that it doesn’t get lopsided,’ said John.

A little bubble surfaced on the water and diverted the course of the lopsided boat.

I stared at the boat. He stared at the boat.

A small piece of grass attached itself to the prow of the boat, creating even more of a list.

 ‘I have something to give back to you,’ I said. I pulled the tin from my coat.

‘You don’t want it?’ John asked, looking at me.

‘I don’t think so,’ I said. I stared at the boat.

John took the tin from my hand and sat looking at it. It was dull in the wintry light. He turned to me with a raised eyebrow.

I shrugged. ‘I think… maybe it needs to be used by someone who won’t notice the hole. Someone who has so much to put in it that they don’t notice it gets lighter.’

John smiled, and nodded, and tucked it into his pocket.

‘I have something for you,’ I said, retrieving another tin from my pocket. This one was smaller, and still warm from having been inside my pocket. John took it and opened it.

‘Buttons,’ he muttered. I could feel a Look coming my way, and nodded toward the boat.

‘They might help with your experiment,’ I said. I took one of the buttons from the tin in his hand and placed it in the middle of the boat. It balanced it perfectly.

John looked at it and a smile spread across his face. He nodded, shut the tin and slipped it into his breast pocket.

We watched the now upright boat waterlog its way across the puddle. After a while, a frown creased John’s brow.

‘It will sink,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ I answered. ‘But you’ll get tired of it after a while, anyway.’

John smiled. I smiled back. The little boat happily bobbed on minuscule waves.

The effect was totally ruined by the dog, who dashed past and sunk the boat.