My mother needs boxes so she can pack old books that were never read, dictionaries, papers and photo albums, among the other miscellaneous, but necessary space holders. The two of us head out at midnight to one of the 24-hour drug stores and get 10 cardboard boxes. We put them in the back seat and the trunk, then take a silent breath, and start driving back home. There is no need to say what we are thinking. We roll the windows down and smell the night on the silent streets.
Eight years back, we had no belongings in cardboard boxes. We had three suitcases, the bare minimum of cash, and an empty apartment with nothing but a Persian rug. I remember standing in the middle of what was to be my room, refusing to accept what I clearly had not imagined to be my American home. I remember nostalgia for lack of better words. And now, I feel that feeling, but with less heaviness.
I have not yet seen the house in Cedar Lane. We should be moving in two weeks. I have not packed. I have not thought about packing or using any of the boxes. I like feeling that we are not changing who we are because I like what we became during these eight years. I like waking up to who I became in this room, even in the loneliest and most troublesome times. But I’ll pack too, in cardboard.