Mystery Box

I don't truly remember when it started. It was just another day I suppose. Nothing special about it.

I'm sorry. No. That's a lie.

It was October 8th, 2010.

The day was kind of cloudy, just an overall grey. But like a light grey, what's that called slate? Slate grey? No, I think that's too dark. It's like that misty grey color. Do you know what I'm talking about?

You're right. It doesn't matter. The point is it was a grey, kind of windy day. I remember it being windy because this little girl that lives down the street was walking to the bus stop and her red hat flew off: yes red, this bright obnoxious color that you could see from a mile down the road, and she went running after it but the bus was coming so she had to make the decision between her hat and the bus and thank god she chose the bus and not that god awful hat. That hat was probably a gift from her grandmother. It was definitely a grandmother type of gift. It was one of those things that you only wear out of obligation.

So it was a cloudy, windy day. And the streets were mostly empty except for the little girl trying to get to the bus stop. The postage had already come, which in itself was truly surprising. Normally the mail doesn't arrive until after lunch. Something around the 3 o'clock hour. But as I stood on my porch enjoying my tea--it was this delicious fruity oolong blend. I think it might be a little against the rules to add fruit flavors to it but it was so good. The perfect amount of sweet and earthy blend. Ugh, and it was the right temperature! Warm enough that it was still steaming, but cool enough to drink it without burning all of my taste buds off.

Anyway, cloudy. Windy. Perfect tea. And when I looked down there was this little brown package sitting on my porch. Like not a brown box, but a brown paper wrapped package. Super old school. It had this thin little twine wrapped around it with a near symmetrical box. Attached to the twine was a small business card that read " from me to you." It was a hand written note, small thin little letters that swirled together. The way the words were written gave off the impression that they had been written in a hurry and yet such a practiced hand that the speed of the writing truly didn't matter because it would come out the same exact way every time.

I know most people receive hundreds of packages a year. To anyone else this would have been totally normal. They probably wouldn't have thought twice about that little package wrapped in vintage brown paper. They probably would have even thought the vintage aesthetic made it cute and fun and whimsical, a personalized touch if you.

I am not one of these people.

I have never purchased anything online. I do not trust it.

So this supposedly inconspicuous brown paper wrapped packaged that arrived on my porch was surely misplaced and belonged to one of my neighbors. I'm sure one of those online shoppers would recognize the package and come rescue it to take it to its rightful home.

So I left it.

I entered my home and went on with my day.

The second package arrived on October 9th, 2010.

This one did not come through the regular mail. I know this because the mailbox was empty and Saturdays are junk mail days and there is never not junk mail. I firmly believe that we could probably solve the issue of deforestation if companies realized that 99.99% of all junk mail they sent out was promptly placed in the bin. Do you know how much paper we could save a year? No, neither do I but I know it would be a lot.

So on that Saturday, I stepped out onto my porch like I do every morning with a steaming cup of tea--I do not remember the particular flavor on this particular day because I never got to drink it, the flavor never got the chance to be seared into the memory. I suppose that information will be forever lost.

The neighborhood was quiet, clearly too early for much movement especially on a Saturday, when I noticed that small brown paper wrapped package with the thin twine sitting upon my steps. Even from the distance I was at I could tell that the little note attached to the twine said "from me to you" in the same exact flowing scrawl. I am sure if I sat the notes down side by side they would match identically.

How do I know this was a second package and not mistaking it for the first? Because the first sat on the porch not a foot away from it.

The utter surprise and shock grasped my sense of awareness, allowing me to forget that I indeed held a gorgeous mug with delicious tea of an undetermined flavor and dropped said mug and tea. The hot liquid splashed onto my slippers, affectively burning my toes through the thin material. This, like the little girl's red hat from the previous day, were a gift from my grandmother. They were this monstrosity of geometric patterns with not one single square of matching color. I had wanted to immediately throw them away, because honestly they are so hideous I would not even donate them to the homeless and force them to bear this burden, but my mother, as all good mother's are, told me to at least try them. That grandma would be upset if I didn't make an effort.

So I tried them.

And if I didn't know any better, I'd swear they were the most comfortable footwear ever known to man. And now, here I am near fifteen years later, a grown-ass man still wearing slippers that my grandmother had once bought for me.

Despite the spilled tea and broken ceramic and potentially ruined slippers, let's be honest these shoes have seen far worse than some spilled tea, I kicked the first box to the second box. Left them abandoned on the porch and promptly marched back inside.

On the third day there arrived a third package, already waiting on the porch for me as I stepped out onto the porch, empty handed since I had broken my favorite and only mug.

The only difference with this package was that a mug, a doppelganger to the one that had been broken the previous day, sat daintily on top of it.

Overly suspicious and paranoid as to why these particular packages were arriving to me, I quickly moved them inside of the mud room to remove any suspicion from my neighbors. I am sure they already find me peculiar enough that do not need to find out that I am not only receiving packages for the first time in my life, but I am also refusing to open them. Even if they are for me there is no saying what their contents may be.

I did, however, keep the mug. After all, a replacement was due to me for the one the mystery deliverer made me break.

On the fourth day, and no longer a surprise, a fourth package arrived.

And on the fifth day, a fifth.

The mystery package, this little box wrapped in brown paper with a thin twine and note card reading "from me to you" has now become part of my routine. Each morning I step out to find a new package identical to it's brothers. Each morning I observe the quiet street with my cup of tea and once I have finished, and only then, do I reach down and grab the package and bring it inside with me.

It has been 3,936 days since the first package arrived.

And I have 3,935 unopened packages loitering around my home. The mud room is now a hallway. I have constructed end tables and shelves and chairs out of the boxes. I use them as an entertainment center, as a coffee table. I live inside of a maze of parcels coated in brown paper with twine.

This is what I have become.

This is what home feels like now.

The boxes are my companions. I do not know what I would do without them. And I know I will never open them.

Their arrival no longer bothers me. I no longer have the burning desire or fear to learn what is inside of them. They only are.

I drop one, then two sugar cubes into my cup of black tea as well as an ice cube. Chilled tea will be suitable for this warm summer morning.

I unlock the front door and grin down at package 3,936.