Given enough cardboard and tape I could make my own childhood house. At least until winter. Then, it all flattened, became one big sled that raced down the brown foothills, so out of control, fast, faster still, until a Plymouth door handle left a permanent time scar on my forehead- one, two, three little rivers forging into each other. Now, that was a good time.
I still love boxes, if only for the way they hold unopened expectations. I understand the child’s delight for playing within the boxes of the unwrapped Christmas morning.
I miss sled riding! We had the best Hill in the neighborhood. We would have to get up and go outside early or else the other kids would tear up all the snow before we got a chance to.
My husband is 44 and him and my daughters take the boxes from deliveries to the house and turn them into different real estate for our cat. He has a two-level house in the living room, a hoagie Hut in the dining room, an apartment in one of his sisters rooms.
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