With the store potentially closing/moving/fuck, I neither know nor care anymore, along with some other stuff on the homefront, I’ve been thinking a lot about boxes. My shed is full of boxes: Boxes from my childhood bedroom, boxes from my Paw Paw’s insurance office, boxes from my dad’s schoolroom, boxes of my Maw Maw’s Christmas decorations. In my shed is at least eighteen years of my time on Earth. My fiance still has stuff in boxes from her move into the house. There’s a few years of her life still boxed away. In the shop are boxes full of random fixture pieces and other bits and bobs collected over the years from storefronts past.
So much of our time is spent bringing pieces into our lives. We cherish them for as long as they have influence over us. Some hang around longer than others; some are gone within days. Then we put them into boxes and put them in closets or attics or sheds or garages, and they live in darkness.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m half a week away from leaving this place for good. Why am I getting emotional about stuff?! Really, this is a common thing when facing such finality. The answer is because stuff carries emotion. That teddy bear you got when you were a baby and had in your bed every night until you were ten. That pen your grandfather used to write every letter. The wreath you grandmother hung on the front door every holiday season from the day after Christmas until the day after Epiphany. They mean something, they stand for something, they are something. To you, to them, to everyone who came into contact with them.
No matter how tiny, there is always something there. It’s all in how we process it, how we weigh it. Some things are heavier than others, and they linger longer. But no matter how you look at them, they’re just stuff. Stuff in boxes. Our life in boxes.
-The Retail Explorer