I spend each
day sealing cardboard box edges; concealing its contents with the screech of a
tape gun. Shipping samples, sending out goods; and in
the midst I don’t give much thought to the wonder of a cardboard box that a
small child materializes in their ingenuous,
constantly churning psyche. Olive-shaped, gleaming, doe-eyes with gummy smiles and
pure faces. Tiny drooly grins. The innocence they embody so
precious and extraordinary. Four build-able walls, perforated edges of
endless possibility. Potential plots and
illusions explode once the tape is cautiously peeled back. Break it down, dance
on top. Fill with playthings, a fort or a hideaway to devour a good story. “Keep Out” signs, or “come play with me.” The inventiveness of this
tiny human bubbles up and is famously infectious. The laughter echoes inside
the layers of paper, and it draws you in. You climb halfway,
bargaining with the two-year-old that you can, and will, fit inside. When really it’s that you long to fit inside
that world again. That truly innocent existence. Cautious,
yet uninhibited. Spry, yet nodding off
after a well versed story, with a safe shoulder to meet their doze. You wished your whole young life to be grown-up,
and now all you want is to regress to grass stains and scribbled notes on lined pages. You crave
to span out along the floor, extending every piece of you, ground yourself and become that little life. You
long to play pretend, once again.
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