Boxes. I see them everywhere–in my sleep, in dumpsters, in previously locked cars. I’m like that kid in The Sixth Sense, only instead of seeing dead people, I see boxes.

We’re moving, and so my life, which was once a quest for truth, beauty, and comfortable shoes, is now a singular quest for rectangular cardboard. And it’s been an education. The dependable box sources of my youth are either gone or less enchanting than they once were.

When I was in my 20s and moving every equinox, it didn’t seem to matter that the boxes’ previous tenants were rotten cantaloupes or used cat litter. But I’ve gotten fussy in my old age …