It’s absurd: Our entire lives fit in a few boxes. We spend our days desperate to be original, to defy labels, to “think outside the box”. But when it all comes down to moving across the country (or even down the street), our worldly posessions, souvenirs from eras past, are dumped into soggy cardboard containers if they ever want to see the light of day again.
When we unpack, at long last, our empty rooms fill with warmth of days past. Childhood treasures are rediscovered. Things we thought had long ago been lost are held to our chests as if to imprint their sentimental on our skin.
At last I see that this has made my multiple moves in the past few years entirely worthwhile.