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Boxes

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I saw a box. Me, in a different form. The box wasn’t perfect, and yet, it wasn’t terrible. It was laying there. Helpless. If a car ran over it, what could it do? It couldn’t stand up for itself. It couldn’t pull its self to the side of the highway. It was discarded.
It was trash.
No one wanted it and no one needed it. Maybe it was important at one time. Held the late grandmother’s wedding dress or you eldest son’s graduation forms. Important memories could be help in that box. It could’ve held leftover Tupperware containers from a weekly Sunday dinner.
Just that certain box can contain more than a ton of precious memories. It could be made of a flimsy, delicate, type of cardboard. That doesn’t matter. It’s the memories that count.
Only the memories.




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