There's something strange and kind of surreal about sitting in a room and looking at your entire life packed into a row of boxes on the floor. It made me wonder what a complete stranger would think if they unpacked my life instead of me.
What would they find?
Would it be good or bad or a little bit of both?
Would they know what things meant the most to me?
Would they understand the significance of the broken sunstone ring or the countless missionary letters?
Would they look through my journals and realize that half of them are empty, and would they pull apart the stapled pages and read them, or would they let them be?
Would they realize that my most precious possessions are contained in two little blue shoe boxes?
Would they know that any physical representation of my deepest secrets and regrets are buried at the bottom of the smallest box?
Would they figure out what objects and pictures represent my happiest moments?
How much of me is really contained in all of those boxes?
And then,
What would I think if I unpacked a complete stranger's boxes?
Love, Brontë
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