Burnin' Down The House

No, I didn't set my new house on fire.
I'm home alone this whole weekend. Empty house. Just me and a half eaten pizza. I've dedicated this weekend to cleaning and organizing and getting stuff done without the tv distracting me, or a book for that matter. I just finished "A Million Little Pieces" by James Frey and it consumed me every second of the day, unless my hands were in someone's hair, or feeding my mouth, or taking a shower. So tonight after work I pulled out they Lysol, the broom and dust pan, clean sheets and towels, and the furniture polish. I turned up Mason Jennings on my lap top and turned on only the lights of which room I was cleaning. I started on the top of the house and worked my way down the hall, through the bathroom, down the stairs, and around the loop of this circle house. In my room, there were still 4 large boxes from where I shipped my stuff over here from North Carolina. They just kind of collected old bus tickets, water bottles, credit card statements, etc. I decided it was time to gain the floor to my bedroom and get rid of these boxes. After sorting the recycling vs. the trash, I was curious on what to do with these gigantic boxes? I gazed out the kitchen window, saw the fire pit, and had a fabulous idea.

I didn't realize how much of a sentimental event this would become. As the fire got stronger, I would place a box on the fire and watch it melt away. Goodbye box. The first two were easy to watch burn away. The third box, however, turned from a box burning in a fire pit, to my box, the box which held only my prized possessions-photo frames of my friends and family, clothes, important documents-for a couple weeks. I started noticing the fire's beautiful orange and yellow flames dancing in the cool wind. I followed the ashes intertwine with smoke high above the tallest pines. While I followed the smoke and ashes that high above, I noticed the stars glistening. The snaps and crackles flooded my ears, as did Mason Jennings from the living room of the house. I turned back to the box to see that the flame had lessened and the box was no longer a box, but just a pile of red and orange ashes. I proceeded to place the fourth, and last, box on the small flames. It was engulfed immediately and the flames grew again and history repeated itself. The ashes danced in the starlight with the billowing smoke, and floated back to the ground, like a scene from Edward Scissorhands. I looked back at the box, and the tape which once held my precious belongings safely in this box, was curling away and melting from the heat. I watched it curl across the top of box and followed it to what almost broke my heart.

Written in a turquoise Crayola marker, courtesy of the lady at the Delco Post Office, in the top left corner of this box, was J. Davis, followed by my Riegelwood address. My eyes harassed the melting tape down further until I get to the "To" address. This is my address. This is my new address. This is the box that once took so much of my time and attention to make sure it was only packed with necessities and love. This was my box that held my possessions. This was the box that drove and flew across the country to get to this address. I'm the girl that did the same as this box, and ended up at the same place. I'm the girl that's clear across the country from her mama and daddy, her sister and nephew and brother in law, her best of friends. This box just melted in front of my eyes.

Right now the box no longer exists, physically. That box will never hold my things again. It will never make them feel secure. And it will never go back to Breezy Acres Dr.

Me and this box isn't as much alike as I thought we were.