I’ve never met a cardboard box I didn’t like. As a result, I have a dedicated box closet in my basement. This humble, unfinished space is not just for storing boxes; instead, it’s a testament to being able to find the perfect box only a flight of stairs away.
Each one I’ve saved tells a story and invites me to recall a package delivered, an appliance purchased, a gift received. Each one also awaits its turn as the perfect box in which to return a book, send a present or hold my recycling.
There’s also a practical reason why I save so many boxes.
Two decades ago, a neighborhood punk broke into my house and stole two TVs, a couple of kitchen appliances, my monitor and a number of other things. In filling out the police report, I was asked to provide pictures of the items as well as their serial numbers. Alas, with the items gone—as well as the boxes they came in—so was proof of my ownership. (And yes, I could start snapping pictures, writing down serial numbers and recycling boxes, but I like seeing visual proof of things I purchased and gifts I received. When shipping a package, I also like knowing I have a closet full of boxes of various dimensions from which I can choose.
Yes, cardboard boxes hold an undeniable magic for me that transcends their seemingly mundane nature. This is especially true since the start of COVID, when I, like many others, opted to order everything from groceries and office supplies to pet food and electronics, rather than test fate by going out to shop.
In a world sometimes obsessed with grandeur and complexity, the cardboard box stands strong in its corrugated simplicity, a reminder of the importance of both form and function and how, when combined, even the ubiquitous cardboard box can be a thing of beauty, a way to do what I’m trying to do more of: celebrate the seemingly mundane.
