Cardboard, Again

The cardboard box invasion has gotten out of hand. Susan's dining room is covered with boxes of books, CDs, art prints, t-shirts. I am leaving in two days for Santa Barbara, and the boxes have to leave first. The boxes skulk, like the nuns in Juliette of the Spirits. They threaten the small of my back. Bend your knees when you lift! Susie admonishes me.

Armed with luggage carts, we shepherd these ungainly guests into my station wagon and head for the post office. In the parking lot, a homeless man pleads for money. I hire him on the spot to move the boxes. The sun bursts from behind the clouds. The homeless man is suddenly, if briefly, employed and on his way to a decent meal. He feels like a hero. Susan and I feel protected by the Universe. The boxes are suddenly tamed and on their way to the Twiggs Company. Now they are precious, insured. I am suddenly lighter. I have nothing I cannot lift.