the box

It was nearing zero degrees. My hands ached as the cold seemed to move through them as water moves through a paper towel. I gripped the handles with intensity this afternoon as I carried the box of books to my new home. This box had been with me for a while. It was a box that had been rescued from the dumpster by my dear friends Nathan and Brianna as they were packing their life into a truck in Iowa anticipating the life they would live in Massachusetts. I'm not sure at what point the box came into my ownership, but I believe it has been with me for at least seven moves. At one time the cardboard was home to six, gallon, milk containers, but now it carried a handful of my favorite books, some magazines, a couple keepsakes for my desk and a few other sundry items. As I neared the place on the sidewalk that collected the drips from the roof, the right handle of the box ripped apart leaving the contents of my box strewn about on the sidewalk. For a second I looked at the variety of things that lay on the ground before setting the box down and leaning over to collect my belongings.

Sometimes I feel like that box. Just plain tired of moving.