Life in boxes

Why Colorado? Everyone asked. We were ready for something new. We love the outdoors, the mountains, the sunshine. It seemed to be the place that could please both of us.

However, as much as we wanted it, and as much as we planned for it, it was a tough time. We were going through a lot of change which included Tim retiring from medicine. This is a time in life everyone looks forward to. You have worked hard to make a difference, to provide for your family and for financial stability in the future. It’s the opportunity for adventure and all the other things you haven’t made time for. But even this type of transition can present stress and difficulties.  And after 15 years together, Tim and I certainly had our own share of challenges as a team.

Tim was leaving his medical practice behind. That felt like a loss. We sold our beloved home in Davidson. That felt like a loss. We were exiting a community of wonderful friends. That felt like a loss. Our identities were shifting. Our relationship was shifting. We were struggling together, waiting out this time in an apartment near Davidson. Trying to sort through it all. But, we kept moving forward, and we purchased a home in Denver.

Now, the movers were back repacking for the journey to Colorado. That day was March 22, exactly two months before Tim would take his final breath. And I wrote this poem while sitting alone surrounded by boxes.

Life in boxes

The boxes hold things. Only things.
Wrapped in smooth, colorless paper. Sealed with sticky tape.
Words suggest the contents and the owner.
The heart seeks my attention.
These are not boxes with things and paper and tape and words.
This is your past and your future.
The soul begs to differ.
This is your present.
Acceptance is like gratitude for the now.
No more what if.
I am here.
My arms are sore from lifting.
I stand in stillness next to my life in boxes.

What was I trying to accept? That we were struggling? That I didn’t know if we would be moving to Colorado together? We thought we were battling one thing, but as it turns out, we were battling something bigger. Something terminal.

On August 5, nearly five months after the boxes were moved from Davidson, there I was sitting alone in Denver. I was staring at 5 more boxes that had not yet been unpacked. I dug in. I opened all but one of them. That last box sat there for several more weeks until I realized why I had not yet unpacked it. This was it. The last of our life in boxes. It paralyzed me. I hoped it wasn’t the junk drawer. Or another set of copper pots.

As it turns out, it was full of photos. Including a heavy mahogany box that pinched my thumb when I opened it. It made me pull back. It drew blood. After exclaiming “ouch” to no one, I secretly hoped it would leave a scar.

There it was. The last of it. This is your past and your future. This is your present.