She didn't really care much for cardboard boxes. Their texture, their presence. They were blocky and cluttered corners and hid away in backs of attics. But, she didn't have much of a choice. She wasn't very well going to leave his gloves in the closet, his books on the shelf, his coat by the door. She did not want, in these few hours, to be reminded.
When people die, their things need to be cleaned up. Who will pick through her belongings tonight?
