The Memories Contained Within Boxes

My sister likes to think of our childhood as nomadic, always packing up and moving from one place to another. 

I remember the boxes in our garage or storage that remained there for years, only to be moved again. Now and then, the content of those boxes would change, yet their meaning remained the same -- an imminent reminder of the next time we’d have to move. When I was younger, I never paid much mind to those boxes, always playing and hanging out with those whom I called friends. Every move, I’d be sad, but I never really cried. It was simply something that had to be done.

As I grew older and the boxes became more worn, I formed much deeper and more meaningful friendships, striving to keep in touch with many. However, when some stopped texting as much, or not even bothering to stay in contact, I became sad, wondering why I had to move so much. I had no power over my own life, only being able to adapt as I went. I always thought, “Why me?” during those moves. 

Every other time in my life, I could find a way to be happy and make the most of everything. But those moves… those times were the hardest of all. I’d want to cry, but I never did. It was just a dull, sinking feeling in my heart, a cold acceptance of what was to come.

First days of school, ends of the year, packing for trips… all of those came and passed, but those boxes always stayed in storage. They knew they would never be unpacked, so they stayed sealed for the next move.

The musty smell of cardboard, the chemical smell of epoxy on the tape, things I will never forget. There are memories imprinted inside my head, memories that flash back every time I’m in the Home Depot.

I always thought of the PCS orders as fickle, trying to move me from one place to another just as I’d settled down. Now, I think of them as more of a memory, some sort of comfort as I navigate my teen years.