Full of different stories, each box a world of its own.
The box to the left has classic music creeping out of its edges early in the mornings. It holds a lady who forgets her very own name but never misplaces yours. Elegant and frail, yet strong like the hope she holds for the world. For she knows the terrible state it is in. She makes you want to invite yourself over for tea. Tea in a truly safe place.
Downstairs a box burst at the seams with healthy laughs the kind from way down deep, and the smell of true soul food. Faithful is the lady who belongs to this box. Her hugs are a mother's love. Yet serious is the tone in her voice to remind you when praise goes up, blessing come down, and Prayer is one thing not to be forgotten in the chaos of life.
Dare I begin to wonder about my own box. What it may be in the eyes of others. They hear it is full of open doors waiting to be slammed. Two opinions without enough room. It is a box full of muffled cries from one soul and more obvious yelling from another, a box built on tired and breaking support beams ready to give way.
I keep hold to fading sliver of hope that everyone around, see two young people lost in the echoes of this world, just trying to make a box into a home.
