Well in most cases, it's not just 'a' box, but a great number of boxes. We're in the process of packing our busy lives into boxes... boxes for pots and pans, boxes for frames, towels, sheets, books and toys. All of our treasures that we've collected along the way are securely wrapped in old newspaper and stored away until we will unwrap it all again in our new castle. And either proudly display our treasures once again as if nothing had changed or hide them away, too attached to discard them just yet.
But there is one box I have which makes me pose the question... How do you pack a life into a box?
It was such a little life, most of it spent growing safely inside. Only a few breaths taken here on this earth, and yet from such a tiny life comes a box of memories. Every time we set up house, I put these memories out in a special place, usually a place that is quiet and personal. A 'safe' place where we can remember his precious existence. Admittedly, most days his belongings sit on the shelf, with usually only a glance, and then a small ripple of heartache will come across me as I go about the day. Some days, when the moment is there, I pull down a book, or the photo album. Snuggle the teddy a little and just remember for a second, that my son was here. He did live, and he has made an impact.
Then comes the day, like yesterday, when I have to face packing it all away again to move to the new house. It's the physical touching of his things that brings the memories and the pain flooding back. Floating to the surface to remind me of him. The four fleeting hours spent in NICU, just holding hands with me... then the memorial service, and the cremation... his little clothes and blanket still wrapped in the box... his bronzed hand and feet prints... the unpacked hospital bag.
I'm sure that it won't matter how many times we move house, and how many times his little box will be packed and unpacked... I will still marvel at how a person's little life can fit in one box.