Boxes.

Seeing sealed boxes lined up beside your front door is never good.

Thick, scratchy black marker defines the destination of each box and its content. Some are hers... some are his...
Either way, it's pronouncing a separation. An actual, physical, palpable divide.

Everywhere I turn, there's a box tripping me over. I can slowly see our home being juiced into cardboard packaging.

Ironically, this isn't our first time. I remember my younger self debating whether to pack her Barney stuffed toy or not. I remember seeing the wide sellotape seal box after box of my posessions. Memories of late night sneaking into the living room to peek into an untaped box, just to flick through the pages of a book one last time before seeing it packed and mailed off. It all came flooding back.

Closing the edges of those boxes marks the end. And the ripping sound of the tape as you stretch it along the openings defines closure.

Our family now has an expiration date...

And I can feel the ticking clock above our heads.