Boxes

As I near the last third (quarter?) of my boxes, an amusing thought comes to me. I have opened all of them, some only to close immediately, others to shift rooms or sit half open, even half emptied. I feel like I have a pretty good handle of what and where everything is. Which leads me to wonder where my possessions have gone which remain unaccounted for?

There is so much STUFF, I'd probably be glad if some inadvertently disappeared, and wouldn't miss it or even notice. Except that the things which are missing belong with other things that are found, and the incompleteness of the sets is bothering me. For example, I have located and unpacked what I believe are all of my book boxes. My shelves are nearly full and looking lovely. My Annie Leibowitz book, a giant I remember having to find an especially large box for, remains missing. The other books I have by her--Work, Women, and Olympic Portraits--sit patiently waiting to be completed. I've also only found two of my six Harry Potter books (I know there are seven; I haven't bought the last yet. I borrowed my mom's early copy instead). Those two sit on a shelf that is nearly empty, trying to take up enough space that I don't forget about the missing ones and put something else there.

Right before I moved, I bought three gorgeous, vintage cross-stitch pillows. I ended up putting them in separate boxes to fill up space and lighten heavy loads. Only two have emerged.

All the missing items could be in one box, or they could be in boxes I've already opened but are hiding under things I don't remember putting on top of them.

I also imagine that one if the moments I left the truck unattended, someone might have grabbed a box, any box, to open like a Christmas present that night. He gets home with a wide, short, especially heavy box, and giggles gleefully, I'm imagining by candlelight, as he leans over the box to reveal the prize for his crime. Out comes a blue cross stitch pillow with white and yellow irises. Not what he expected, but heck, even criminals need lumbar support. Leaning back on his new pillow, he pulls out the weighty photo book. Perhaps it is something titillating, he hopes, as he opens the grey covers. Alas, no naked women, but pictures of children, eldery parents, and a dying Susan Sontag. Hmph, he thinks. Art is weird. Next in the box, Harry Potter! Now there is literature! He's been meaning to read those so he has something to talk about with his estranged kids (criminals have those, I imagine). Is the first one here? No. Is the last? No. I can imagine how
frustrating this box has been. "I risked being arrested for this?!" he cries to the heavens. He immediately realizes crime doesn't pay and decides to change his ways. The end.

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