My Seven year old son often asks me that. The box in question sits atop a cupboard in the kitchen.
'Oh not much' I say to him as I glance up at the little wooden cube.
That's not true. The box contains a little piece of my life that my son knows nothing of. It has two steel discs inside its battered walls. The letters and figures punched into the discs would have told the men who found my dead body what my number was. My date of birth. My religion and my blood group.
There is also a medal in there. Its ribbon has long since faded and the Queens face is dulled and no longer shines.
Another steel disc lives next to my two. It is inscribed with a language I do not understand. The Arabic symbols must also represent another soldiers basic details. I found the enemy dogtag in a destroyed position. There was no body just a disc.
There are also some photographs. They are sealed in a plastic bag and I have not looked at them for a long time. They are moments of madness, despair and horror captured forever in time. Bloated broken faces stare out of them. As do the tired, frightened and homesick eyes of a teenager at war.
Somewhere inside that box is a child. A child with a rifle who didn't come home. My Mother still mourns his loss and he is seldom spoken of. I try to remember him and how he was before. But like the boy himself the memory has gone.
One day I will bury the box far away from the curious eyes and mind of my young son. But not yet...