Once upon a time in a land far, far away called Zoey, lived a family of book boxes. There was Papa box, and Mama box, and Sister box, and Brother box, and a .5 box no one was sure of gender yet. Government statistics make these things difficult sometimes, but that’s another story at another time. They were a happy if somewhat cardboard family who had followed the same snail trails as their ancestors before them. Most of the box family had been librarians for obvious reasons, although they usually had the .5 box enter the monastery since they didn’t know what the hell to do with it and being a good, Catholic or some type of poster paper religion, felt it necessary to give a kid to the church.

This was the way it’d always been for book box families and the boxes assumed it would continue in its safe but sometimes uninteresting path. Until that day. While eating their usual breakfast of yesterday’s paper sprinkled with sawdust for fiber, Papa box said, “Son, I think you’re old enough to come with me to the office now and start training.” Mama box clapped all four flaps in excitement and Sister box giggled shyly through the handles on her side. Don’t ask me why she had handles; it was a family trait. Do you think every box looks alike? 

Brother box’s lower flap trembled and he looked at his insides. Then with a deep breath he squared himself, which wasn’t easy because he was rectangle and slowly released his breath. “Papa, I’ve wanted to talk to you about this for so long. I don’t want to be a librarian. I want to travel, see the world, make a difference.”

“What?” Rasped all the other members of the box family with the sound that only comes with shutting your flaps in a weave pattern to close up.

“Now listen here, young, overgrown Kraft paper,” Papa said.

“You’ll do no such a thing, you ungrateful seedling stock,” said Mama.

“Groovy,” said Sister, but didn’t continue after Papa grabbed her handles and flipped her upside down, spilling all her books.  I hate it when he does this. He treats me just like an envelope.

Mama looked at Papa sternly for dumping Sister, again wondering what she’d ever seen in this square. But. She was not to be distracted from her enclosed choices she wanted to point out to her son.

“Son, what are you?”

“Uh, a book box?”

 “Now son, tell me, what is the purpose of a book box?”

“Ah gee Ma, everybody knows that.”

“Don’t get flappant with your mother,” Papa said.

“Sorry Pa, our purpose is to take books to the library and catalogue them,” Brother sighed.

“Well, I’m glad that’s all over. Any more paper, Mother?” Papa asked. “I feel like I could eat a tree in this cold weather.”

“But Papa, it’s not over. I’m an adult box now. Look, I’ve been growing corrugated layers on my chin. I’m not going to be a librarian.”

“Groovy,” said Sister after she slid herself out of Papa’s reach.

“Don’t be silly,” said Mama box. “Right now you can’t see the forest for the trees.”  

“Mama, Papa, I don’t want to upset you. But I have this feeling I need to be more than just a common carrier. Please try to understand.”

“Understand? Understand?” Mama’s voice was rising and Brother felt wet under his flaps from sweating. “You’re a box, you idiot. How do you think you can be ‘more’ or make a difference?”

“And furthermore…” Papa started but Mama cut him off with a swishing flap that caused a paper cut. Papa decided to eat and let Mama handle the misguided child.

“Mama, don’t you see? If all the boxes of the world united there’s no telling what we could do. We could carry food to the hungry, medicine to the ill and infirm, the list is huge.”

“Papa, I want you to go get .5. This rabble-rouser is no son of mine. Actually, he doesn’t even look like me; I knew he’d be nothing but trouble when I saw he took after your side of the wood pile.”

Brother box left that day with limp flaps, barely able to hold his books inside. He took one look back, and his sister yelled “GROOVY” out the window right before Papa dumped her out of it.

He settled a few miles down Zoey brick road underneath a big apple tree. What a waste, when the tree could be an oak, all hardwood and worth a half zillion boxes.  For the first time he really looked inside himself. No, I mean really, at the books he contained.

When he did, he flapped and closed right back up.  That’s the scariest cover I’ve ever seen. But a little at a time he reopened and picked one of the books up.  He quickly flipped it over.

  Christmas Choir: “ Nostalgia is the star on stage in these Holiday stories. Not all are decked in colored lights and tinsel, yet they'll stay with you, like delicious memories of ' family around the table ' meals, the scent of pine and familiar voices, long after you've put the book down. You'll remember, because you'll pick this book up again and again to enjoy these talented storyteller's tales.”

Look at that. A bunch of people wrote these stories and they all ended up in these books I have. I wonder…

Brother box lay under the tree and opened to the first story. Imagined Loneliness, hmmm. I could almost relate to that except mine isn’t imagined. But he started the story anyway. By the time he finished he was wetting his corrugated layers with tears of sadness, joy, triumph and a realization he did relate to the story. Are all books this good? I’m going to read the next story because that one was ‘groovy.’

Brother box could not put the book down.  It wasn’t until he read the last story with a sigh he realized he really couldn’t put the book down. It was stuck to a label on his flap. He finally scraped it against the maple until it came off and read the label. Lost, please return? What does that mean? He flipped all his contents and at the bottom there was labels and inferior boxes called manila envelopes and even some type of bookmarks.  He saw a corner of white paper and decided to eat it while he pondered. But before he could stuff it in his layers, he caught sight of writing.

“I met others and signed these and have sent them on to the next closest author. Please sign, and put your enclosed label on the box; they are already addressed to your closest person. Also, please put…”

At that point the writing blurred and Brother couldn’t read anymore. He ‘flapped’ the items around and then reopened a book. Sure enough in the front were a few signatures of the authors.  He sorted the labels and figured out the system of order they were in.  He noticed an address label on his chest and went to the next label that should’ve been placed on top of it. Oh, so this is what lost is.

Brother leaned back against the maple to think. What should I do? I’m just a cardboard square and I don’t remember this type thing ever happening in our family. Should I go ask Papa? NO! I’ve always had ‘lost’ and labels on me, and Papa never said a thing about it.  

Brother looked back down the Zoey brick road. Not a box in sight. He looked up the Zoey brick road.  No boxes.  He absently pulled a piece of bark from the tree and chewed it. Finally, he picked up the next label, stuck it on his chest, repacked himself, and slid on. 

He slid and slid and slid until he was sure he couldn’t slide another inch.  Flaps limp, body sagging he slid to the side of the road.  What ever made me think I could break out of the mold I was made in? I need to go home and work at the library. I’m not different, I’ll never be. I must have sawdust for brains.

Brother was so involved in his self-pity the man was almost upon him before he noticed. In a panic he closed up, barely peeping out of one flap.

“Well, what do we have here?” the man asked. “Let’s get a good look at you.” The man leaned over and Brother closed his flap in fear. What if he’s the ‘box cutter’ man Mama always warned us about?

But, Brother was in luck. The man said, “Well little guy, you’re in luck. I see you have a big ‘lost’ on you and I’m the Zoey mailman. So now you’re found and I’ll take you right to the Post Office. Hmmm, on your way to Michigan huh? That’s a nice place.” 

I wonder what a Michigan is? I sure hope it’s nice and they don’t have scary ghouls there.

Before Brother could scare himself more, he was in the thing called a Post Office. The man who carried him there stamped some things on Brother and that hurt a little, but he didn’t cry. His Mama had always told him not to get wet. Then he was put on a shoot and was whirling and twirling down, down, down. He landed flap over teakettle with an “oomph.” He was put in a big, dark bag and almost did cry then, but was glad when he ended up on a plane in the cargo hold ‘cause he didn’t like the flying much. But it was all worth it when a nice lady came to pick him up.

She sent him to London, Ohio but suddenly he was watching the changing of the guard outside a place called Buckingham Palace. That was pretty groovy until he realized he was lost again.

Next, Brother’s address was Rome, Georgia but he ended up at some place called The Vatican. It was really pretty but he had ‘lost’ put on him again. And he had to repeat that long flight. But he made it to Georgia.

He was slapped with a new label for Delhi, Louisiana. And he thought India was gorgeous until he realized he was lost.

Next stop Dublin, Mississippi. When he saw the sheep grazing among those ‘forty shades of green’ it frightened him. He didn’t know if sheep ate boxes or not. When he found out it wasn’t Mississippi, he was rending layers in frustration. 

Next was Paris, Texas. Only something went wrong somewhere and he was soon viewing the Eiffel Tower. Brother was so annoyed when he got scooped up and a ‘lost’ label slapped on him. He would’ve gone crazy but all his lost labels kept him together.

Brother was smushed, crushed, stomped, ripped and getting out of sorts. This isn’t a mission; it’s a comedy of errors. Not a very funny one, either. Look at my original mailing date to Michigan. I have been delivering these books for almost a year. People don’t even have sawdust for brains. I swear they’re all nothing but empty envelopes.

But Brother finally made his way to California. He only had two labels left and was feeling an overwhelming relief. The nice people in California signed the books and put his label for Cambridge in the UK on. When he landed in Massachusetts, he couldn’t take anymore. He starting sliding away, back to Zoey but was captured. Another label and off he went.

He was on his final lap to a man called Barnum. When he ended up at Barnum and Bailey’s circus, he decided not to kick up a flap. He just tore his last label a tad; making it seem he was suppose to be there. The performers loved the books and Brother realized he should’ve joined the circus in the first place.