The Box

Yesterday, I was packing one big box to be sent back to my home country, the Philippines. It took me approximately four months to fill that box with canned goods, dental hygiene stuff, chocolates and the like. With all that I have squeezed in to make it to that box, I felt sorta, kinda crushed myself; it dawned on me how differently my life had gone. For a moment, I wanted to bury myself under the goods and be sent back home too. Overly dramatic, my better self quipped. But maybe this is every immigrant’s sentiment when they cross this road. I felt sore just knowing all I could send are things, and more things, and just things. That this is gonna be the way I show love, and it might be permanent. Scared the shit out of me. I think now, more than ever, have I learned that none of the things we can buy provide joy. Things are bound to provide happiness, a limited supply of it. The effect of things always lapse, and things themselves expire too quickly. It’s all too sad just knowing my symbol of love is never going to be enough and will never suffice for what I can’t give with my presence in someone’s life. But, we all make do with what we have, right? We all just try, and try more, and try our best to make the ones we love happy. I feel boxed up myself, by my circumstances, my failings, my inadequacies. But perhaps the thought that the fruits of my labor can give some happiness, some comfort, some joy, is more than enough for now. All’s well, all’s well.

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