I found the missing box today.
I am still not unpacked, having avoided it. Opening a box lets out a lot more than the physical contents. It has been too much to open them aside from those that could not be avoided, or friends unpacked for me.
Last night there was no resistance to opening boxes. My new shelves have a few rows filled with CDs, DVDs and books, and this morning, underneath the box containing those folders and research papers I’ve saved from long-ago school, I found the lost box.
If you go back to the very first posts, you will see boxes on the white white floor. This is the one that remains. It’s a mishmash of canned food, paperwork, tokens and items of my time on my own, and the leftover prescription and over-the-counter medicines everyone has a pile of. I have fixated on those, knowing I had a few pills of this, some of that, probably some Vicodin that would have helped recently. It isn’t quite gold, but it is something I have really wanted to find.
Finding the pills and extra cans of soup is pleasant, but not the gift. The box proves I had it all along, that my memory is not failing or delusional. It waited all summer in that storage space, and with the coming holidays it is here. The box says that all things can be trusted to come around.