Once there was a square ball.
Wait—what?
Do square ***** even exist?
She didn’t like being square.
All her friends were round—
free to roll anywhere,
kicked, tossed,
thrown into the air,
feeling that rush in their hollow bellies.
Why couldn’t she be round too?
People left her in some corner,
stuffing her with all kinds of things.
She hated it.
One day,
a round ball saw her sad face.
Why so sad?
I wish I were round like you,
she said,
and burst into tears.
The round ***** laughed.
Since when does a box want to be a ball?
And they rolled away with their laughter.
A box?
The round ball explained:
If you became a ball,
people would kick you,
throw you,
use you until you were worn.
But a box—
a box keeps things safe.
Important things.
Have you looked inside yourself?
Yes, said the square ball.
Just a bunch of old stuff.
The round ball laughed again.
Old stuff? Those are memories.
Letters, photos, little gifts—
pieces of love and longing.
When people miss someone,
they open you,
and you give them back their heart.
The square ball looked inside.
She remembered tears—
both joy and sadness—
whenever her memories were touched.
So I’m a box? she asked.
Born to hold important things?
Of course.
You’re an incredible box.
I wish I were you.
And the round ball rolled away.
The square ball looked inside herself once more—
and no longer wished to be anything
but a box.
