The Packaged

I heard a thud on the front porch. A sunny afternoon greets me with a breeze that eases my thoughts as I walk outside. A small, nondescript box wrapped in brown paper with a single piece of twine neatly tied in a simple bow lies on the concrete stoop. It is marked with my name, address, and phone number with no return address. I lift the box, whatever is inside, doesn’t weigh much.

I bring the box inside, setting it on the kitchen counter. It is seemingly a plain brown package until I flip it over and reveal a puzzling array of letters. I notice the words seem to reflect on each other like when mirrors are arranged to see infinite images. The words start telling a story, my story. My birthdate, social security number, email address, and the make, model, and color of my car stand out. As my eyes adjust, I see words describing my family, home, garden, and the clothes I wear.

The sentences seem to spiral now as they narrate the places I lived in and my experiences. The highs and lows of my days are represented as well as the forgotten moments. The laughter of my children and grandchildren, the arguments and misunderstandings leading to long-held grudges. These victories and failures have come to define my life. My grandmother's voice echoes, “Remember to be who you are.''

The awful memories are written here, the times I lied, cheated, and stole. Thousands of memories flood my mind as I read the words on the package.

I do not know how long the tears streamed down my face. As the sentences pour into me, my life does not read linearly; it is captured in patterns, like snowflakes, some intersecting with others. I breathe, terrified at the prospect of opening this mysterious, magical thing.

I turn the box over while reaching for the bone scissors in the butcher block. I want to cut the twine with the makeshift weapon in my hands. Snapping the twine feels like a victory as I take joy in the only control I have in the situation. I wonder though, what situation am I really in? Staring at the box and wondering what could be inside fills me with an overwhelming foreboding. Fear makes a lazy circle around me and settles within.

Cutting the twine felt like I was taking vengeance on the box. I know logically this is not true, emotion has carried me to a place the stoics called passion. I am not rational anymore. I am feverish with anger, dread, and profound grief seeking some escape. The moment of madness passes into more thoughts. There is no one to call, and there is no rescue. This is something I must face alone.

“Stop!” my mind screams, "you're mad." "Stop, stop, stop," I hold my head hoping the physical grip will ground me. "Breath, breathe, breathe," I will myself. "What is your worst fear?'' I ask. “Death? No," I answer. Remembering previous contemplation of my death leads me to peace and faith. I calm into that knowledge and look at the package again. "There is nothing in this box that I need to fear."

"What if it's a poisonous snake?" I ask. I hold the box to my ear. I know intuitively there is nothing alive in the box. I still take a few moments, listening for a hiss. No sound emanates from the package - just my labored, fearful breathing can be heard.

"What is this? Why is there no return address?" The foreboding is coming back. "How can anyone endure this?" I ask. I answer with no answer, instead, a nameless formless emotion gurgles in my solar plexus.

I note how rational I am as I pull the one clear piece of packing tape off the flaps. The top flaps unfold themselves to reveal the next flaps. I pause, interested, as both sets of flaps fit perfectly so as not to reveal the next layer.

I think about my entire life and how I came to this moment. I focus on a specific story my Dad enjoyed repeating to me. I was born with the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck, almost dying. When my father received word that I would live and that I was a healthy baby girl, he picked my Grandfather up and spun him around the waiting room.

This rhythm unfolds over and over as the years roll by. There is a moment of wondering if I will survive and then like my infant self, I am born into a new expansion with a deep breath and a wail. I do not always recognize evolution, yet I change, morph, and gestate.

I began participating in the new expansions. I did not take for granted the evolved version of myself. I reflected on the focus that molded my creation.

As I pull open the last flaps and look down at the contents of the package, I realize this is about rebirth. A perfectly tied, ready-to-use noose sits neatly in the box.

Delivered at 4:32 pm, it marks the time of my transformation.

The noose renders me packaged.