Unreturned Boxes

The assignment given to us in our English class was to create a personal essay that communicated a significant yet subtle detail about your identity. In Web/Audio class, we enhanced this essay by doing a voiceover and choosing images that relate to our essay to make into a final podcast. The essay that I composed discusses a time from my early childhood that influences every decision I make. Although this has been a difficult and complicated journey, it's made me who I am today and I am stronger for it.

Footsteps up the stairs. The familiar thud and the chime of the doorbell cue the children and the anticipation. Sticky palms yank the knob left and right until the afternoon light floods the living room. The package is schlepped inside as an affable goodbye is given by the hero in the brown suit. All eyes sear the outside of the package and the hands fiercely rattle the newcomer. Suddenly, the Grinch snatches it away, yet assures us we’ll see it again in due time. Sequentially, the immaculate package appears once more under the glimmering lights and is gently seasoned with Noble Fir needles and oohs and aahs. Abruptly, the once beautiful package is now in tatters and it’s contents are revealed, much to the children’s delight.Days drift by, but the essence of the best day of the year remains constant.

I recognized the package that once contained my newfound treasure, only this time it was stuffed with mismatched socks and heavily worn t-shirts. Boxes are notorious for gifting deluxe unseen surprises to families, yet they sometimes work against me in unimaginable ways.

Dusty brown cardboard boxes are packed, folded and taped shut. The last of them are hastily thrown into the back of the beat up truck and the trunk is slammed shut. I attempt to quickly grasp my thoughts yet they float away, out of my reach. I perform the last look around for any forgotten items. Somehow I’m forgetting to count myself. The roar of the engine out front cues me to go and say my goodbyes. I snatch the drawing from the dining room table I prepared in advance for his departure and scramble to present it to him in time. I think I made it. The driver’s window is rolled down manually and I feverishly hand my pride and joy over for inspection and admiration. I beam over my work, waiting for any form of validation. A mere glimpse is given. A crease down the middle upsets my masterpiece and it is then granted a seat on the floor of the truck. Luckily, it was kept company by some empty Arrowhead water bottles and granola bar wrappers. My hands plunge to my side. My heart plummets into my stomach. Anger emerges into my eyes. The car rolls into drive as the engine roars once more to carry it up the hill. I saunter to the middle of the road and fork over one last limp wave and broken-hearted smile. The truck had turned the corner.

Footsteps up the stairs. The child thrusts her body against the window and the hands draw the curtains as they intercept her anxiousness. In the child’s world, the boxes she once knew, the boxes that held her treasures, would return. They would be neatly stacked on the porch, waiting to be recurrently dragged in by the sticky hands. One more glance at the mismatched socks, another exchanged laugh, one more time. Little did the child know that the boxes she once was familiar with would end up moving farther and farther away. The boxes didn’t return.