Upon the kitchen table one evening, amidst the place settings and dinnertime aromas, laid a box. Not just any box, but a box of great value to all in attendance. In this box resided a month's cache of restful nights. To this day, no one knows the story of its materialization.

Forks, knives, and the like scraped upon platters in abandoned harmony. All were skating around the existence of the box. Three of the four in attendance wanted to discuss the box, a deed which none of them dared to execute.

"Sleeeeeeep! Sleeeeeep!" my soul cried joyously, twirling about in sprite-like whimsy. I contained my glee. One member at the table grew surlier by the minute.

We finished our dinner, cleared the table, and cleaned the cookware. The floor was swept, the lights were dimmed, and the evening jar candles were lit. Yet, the four of us hovered in the kitchen. In point of fact, three of us hovered in the kitchen, blocking the fourth's retreat.

Moths to a flame, we closed in around the box, caging the fourth in our zeal. We all reached forth to lay our hands upon the precious box, the giver of the quiet nights.

The fourth scoffed, "Is this a joke!?" Innocently, we three shook our heads in denial. The fourth then read aloud from the box. "'Large - for an adult with a larger nose.' Hmph!"

That first grumble flew from my father's mouth like gossamer, and we knew it to be a sure sign of his crumbling resistance. We waited with bated breath, hoping with all of our might that he would finish reading the box, that he would participate in our scheme to rid the night of wakefulness.

Finally, it came. The voice that spoke was resigned as it read, "'Breathe Right Nasal Strips. Reduces Snoring.'"

Winds of unrestrained merriment whirled about the room as three whooped with delight. One was not so joyous as he read the box again. Indeed, hours later, with the four of us grouped in the living room, I heard him mumble resentfully, "I do not have a big nose."