A Tale of Two Boxes

A Tale of Two Boxes

by Deborah O'Carroll

1

Once on a time—which was not now, but close enough to it as to make no matter—there were two boxes.

These two boxes were new to the life of being boxes, having before been merely cardboard. Being a box was a very interesting state to be in, but they did not know this,for they had never been anything else—besides, of course, cardboard, which was somehow a very flat and distant memory which they could not recall very well, having had no shape at the time, and not having become themselves yet.

One was a fine young cardboard box of a coffee-ish brown color—the kind of coffee with lots of milk in it. The color was where the box's similarities to coffee began and ended, for they neither smelled nor (presumably) tasted anything alike.

The other box was a pristine young cardboard box of white—the off-white, faintly-grey, salt-ish color that most boxes which are white have. For all that, it felt entirely unique, knowing that no other box had a personality like it had, and was content.

These two boxes lived—or, perhaps, existed—in a room on a shelf side by side, awaiting their purpose in life. Although their personalities and temperaments were polar opposites, that did not stop them being the best of friends. They often thought friendly thoughts to each other about whatever boxes think about—generally, the state of the shelf on which they dwelt, or the comings and goings of the large beings with names like Jessica and Jerry who would sometimes come into the room and take a box off somewhere.

Sometimes they thought to one another about what might be in store for them wherever The Place Beyond the Door was, if ever they were to venture there. Despite their different temperaments, they could not quite imagine life without one another, and it had never quite occurred to them that they might embark on such an undertaking without the company of each other.

Until one day . . .

2

One moment I was on the Shelf, thinking to my friend the brown box about a person walking past, and the next moment—taken by a hand and whisked through the door! Well then, this is it, I thought. I was shy and nervous at the idea, but also curious about what The Place Beyond the Door was like. Even as I wondered, I realized that my friend the brown box was being carried off in another direction by another figure in a suit. I felt suddenly lost and confused. Who would I share my thoughts with?

I was soon far too occupied to think about that. One thing I had not expected was how busy it was in The Place Beyond the Door. Life on the Shelf was very quiet save for the occasional person coming in. But outside in these other rooms—! There were sounds and movements and a quite astonishing amount of people bustling around desks and things. It quite made my top flaps flutter.

The next thing I knew, I was on a desk being filled with stacks of paper with little lines of printed words on them. Then my top flaps were closed and taped shut with squeaky shiny clear tape. Some kind of large white labels—whiter than my cardboard—were stuck on my sides and top. They had lines of figures and numbers too, and I did not know what they said. But I felt quite comfortably full of official-seeming sheets of paper, with interesting labels outside, and all nicely wrapped up and closed. I felt different as a closed shape—it was all very exciting. Out of habit, I thought this toward the brown box . . . before remembering my friend was not there. Another box, which I had never met before, was set on the desk beside me. It heard my thought.