On boxes that can speak

One might think that when you need to mail a box, you toss in the contents, close it, stick tape, attach all the address labels and after you pay the fee one hardly need to think about it before it arrives at its destination. But this particular box was unlike any that I knew of. Not only did this box go missing for a full two months after it was mailed due to an undeliverable address, but when it resurfaced and after I got the box back, it actually spoke about its journey like no other box I know of. I also had to fight with all my strength to get it back, plead with every unsuspecting mailman at my door and make dozens of calls to the mail retention center or the place where all dead mail goes- mail that can be dead but can still sometimes speak a tale, if only one strains their ears enough. I had filled the box up with random contents from my past, memorabilia, file folders that had carried unread articles from many a PhD dissertation; books that were printed using typewriters of a bygone era, from professors who had been unsuccessful in publishing them and had simply given them away, palmed off on unwitting students who had shown the slightest interest. In the box was also that single book for which I had sought out the missing box and would keep on fighting to get it back; every other content of the box was quite dispensable. The book is one of those classics, gifted to me by a long gone girlfriend, her slanted handwriting on the first page, good will and wishes still speak of her affections when she penned the note. The after effects of love can endure for much longer than lady love herself. Ah! Going back to the box, we should not digress here- the box spoke of an unbelievably long, battered, tortured journey- It was ripped apart with so many tons of mailman's blue tape that the 'white' - the original color of the box was no longer visible. It was incredibly soft, quite unlike any other cardboard I have ever seen- must have been dragged on a dolly in moderately heavy rain and subsequently left to dry in a languid afternoon sun that is so typical of humid days around here. Wetness that stifles and lingers, refuses to go away even within an oven, perhaps. The box that had once been proudly rectangular, sharp so to speak, was now bulging to the extent that it was now oval, almost like a over sized, blue football, one that was wee bit too heavy to be thrown around in a game though. It was almost ready to burst in despair, reminding me of an overfilled stomach that cannot digest. Address labels had been ripped apart and reattached many times over; no one did know where the box was supposed to go anyway. The only thing that must have helped it reach me was this green tracking label which I had attached merely out of habit for I do not pinch pennies or dollars for that matter. When I removed the tape to inspect the insides of the box and its contents, there were also these large gaping holes, large gashes that one could see through, gashes that were a mark of a brutal contempt for its being, rips that were probably caused by the sharp edges of the same dolly that carried the box through the rain. This also explained all the need for the extra blue taping in the first place. Holes need to be patched up, covered up to dissuade people from taking a peek, just to control their utterly voyeuristic instincts. Some boxes can speak of unspeakable things as well, mine sure did. In the end, after I had removed and put away all its contents, precious book inclusive, I trashed the box. Sadly, the box had absolutely no possibility of a reuse. There was no need for a funeral or a wake for that matter. It had simply played its story to me, possibly just once and then the tape ended, abruptly.