Boxes

Boxes. Bubble-wrap. Tape.

It's moving day for my family, a stressful transition many people don't ever have to experience. Doing it amidst a global pandemic is even worse. Fresh start, happy memories, different town, new friends.

Why us?

I watch my sister pack up her art collection--charcoals, sketchbooks, colored pencils, erasers. She is five years my junior and is distraught by the sudden uprooting. Her rage and sadness are prevalent in the way she shoves the treasures into her knapsack. She appraises our shared room with trepidation, knowing we aren't paying movers to pack for us. It's a lot to do, and I share her concerns. I wish there was someway to console her, but she has her own way of processing things. I will leave her with her boxes.

Why us?

I walk into the hallway and encounter more boxes and packing supplies. Framed photos, home décor, cat figurines. Silly things my mom likes to spend money on to make the house more inviting. I'd prefer she bake some cookies instead...the warm aroma of melted chocolate is the best feeling of "home" there is. Unfortunately, the kitchen is already packed. No fresh pastries for the foreseeable future, but I can't complain. Mom has done an incredible job of juggling a career, raising two girls, and being a master gardener. I look through the window to see her in the back garden now, organizing her planting tools in rows, graceful as ever. I guess the new owner will inherit her prized tomato vines and hydrangeas. It's too bad we can't box those.

Why us?

I walk out to the garage to assist my dad as he's packing up the travel-trailer. He's shoving boxes into the back and muttering a string of obscenities under his breath. I'm surprised, because he regards profanity like wine; good for special occasions only. I offer to help, but it seems like he's not currently in the mood for company. The uncertainty about the upcoming job must be weighing heavy on him. This breaks my heart, because daddy is the strongest man I know. I want to offer consolation, but he and my sister are alike in needing solitude when they're upset. I walk back inside.

Why us?

How can being in a house full of people still feel lonely? How can I express my feelings without making them feel like I'm marginalizing theirs? High school is the "best time of our lives," right? How can that be true when I won't even get to hang out with my best friends for the rest of my sophomore year? I need to scream. I want to cry. Great. Now I'M the one who needs consoling. I don't want to box in my emotions.

Why us?

I need to see Ashley. Her mother took her phone and tablet because of our shenanigans, but I get a pass to say goodbye to my best friend, right? Plus, she only lives a block away, so it will be an easy walk and a good way to clear my head. I head back outside and traverse the jungle of boxes in the yard, yelling a quick farewell to my dad. He grunts something in response, but I'm out of earshot. As I'm walking down the street, I glance at our house. As cliché as it sounds, I'm definitely going to miss that two-story colonial. I have a lot of memories in that house.

Why us?

I cross the road and walk around the corner. The sun is high in the sky, but the cool air is brisk. It's colder than I remember for early April. Few people are outside, though it's for the best. I'm in a lackluster mood and would've dreaded seeing the neighbors today. I get to Ashley's house after a couple minutes and approach the front door. To not awaken her baby brother, I decide to knock instead of using the doorbell. As I do so, I'm reminded of Knocking on Heaven's Door, by that old band my dad likes. Weird...did I hear that on TikTok? What other songs have that word in them? There's that other oldie, Keep-a-Knockin', by the Tutti-Frutti dude...Little Richie? There's also Knock Three Times on the Ceiling. Oh, and that country song, Knockin Boots! Wow, people like to knock. I'm curious to know if there are that many songs about doorbells. Funny, all I can think of is, "ding-dong the witch is dead, which old witch? The Wicked Witch!" Morose. Anyway, what's taking Ashley so long? Is anyone home? I peer up the driveway at their open garage. There's her dad's car...someone must be here. I knock again, to no avail. Can they see me through the entry hall window? They've likely boxed Ashley under house arrest because of our joy-ride the other day. Her parents are even being meticulous about keeping us separated, from what it seems.

Why us?

Perfect. I contemplate going home, but I will not leave without saying goodbye to my bestie. I will pound on that kitchen door if I have to. With a newfound swagger, I make my way up the driveway to the garage. Yet as I enter the cool, damp shade, my eyes adjust and I immediately realize the problem with Ashley's dad's car. The entire passenger side is demolished! Glass broken, fiberglass dented, paint chipped, tire blown. A tidal wave of memories floods in; speeding down the dark road, rain, spinning out of control, hitting a tree. Ashley crying. Sirens. Lights. Smell of dirt. Dad yelling. Mom sobbing. Formaldehyde. People in black, crying, crying. Pinewood and satin. Preacher reading the bible aloud. Darkness everywhere, and thudding, thudding, thudding. Muffled voices. Lost dreams. Another shiny box buried at the cemetery. MY box.

Standing in the garage, I watch the white light tunnel through the clouds in my direction. I'm beckoned forward, my corporeal form now nothing but a memory. As I start to transcend the plane, I realize: it's moving day.

Why me?