Moving Boxes

Moving Boxes

Shingles/ Clapboards, plywood, trim board, card board boxes, house paint

Growing up my family lived out of boxes. Going into my senior year I had already lived in 13 different houses, one boat, and attended just as many schools. Constantly packing and unpacking the only thing that stayed the same were the boxes we used to move us from one place to the next. We would patch up the old ones with masking tape and only get new ones when nothing could be done to stop them from bursting. What they held was scrawled onto the side with sharpie, then crossed out when it’s purpose changed. These boxes traveled hundreds of miles and held onto our belongings longer than any house ever did.

 I couldn’t tell you why we lived this way other than because we could. Perhaps my parents were searching for something they couldn’t find. Something just around the bend or over the next hill. What I do know for sure, is that their restlessness remains in me today.

I remember hearing my mom say to herself on more than one occasion “god I hope we didn’t fuck you kids up”. Everytime it broke my heart, but that’s exactly what other mothers and teachers told her she was doing. They were all so convinced that their own perception of a home, a single home, was the only healthy one. 

They were wrong, we are doing doing good. So good in fact that I wanted to thank these boxes for everything they have done and finally give them permanent homes. Each of the boxes in front of you was at one point filled with what my parents decided needed to come with us, what we needed to start a new home. Now they are surrounded by what superficially makes a home, four walls, siding, and some paint. What they no longer have is what I have learned truly makes a home, us. That I’m taking with me.