Packing a life into boxes; big boxes, littles boxes
some heavy, some light.
This box is marked fragile, that takes two to lift it.
Inside the boxes: books, papers, art, trinkets
some memorable, some expensive.
This box is overflowing.
I pack away my old life, feeling slightly claustrophobic -- how will it breathe?
My hands are empty and my arms are open for a new life
to live out of the boxes.
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It's an odd thing to watch your home become a series of boxes stacked in an empty room. It makes it seem as if we are only an accumulation of things -- a good reminder that there is more to life than stuff. And yet, it's amazing how stuff can be the physical representation of a memory, a loved one, a passion. We fill our homes with reminders and declarations of who we are, so what happens to us when we pack that away?
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