Don't Kick The Box

I remember it was early in the morning when my sister and I were packed into our mum's new red Chevy, our favourite toys and blankets tucked in around us, our other belongings and clothes packed up and covered in the truck's box along with our labrador, Buddy.

I had the back seat to myself,  my legs carefully arranged around my stuff and a small oak box.

Don't kick the box.

Our move was from Saskatchewan to Ontario, a small family of three that was once four. My mother's sister lived in Ontario, my mum was ready to leave our house and start new. My sister and I were less than enthused, but didn't really want to stay in our house anymore anyway. We had said goodbye to our friends and family, sold my dad's vehicles, the house and most things in it. We left our garden, the flower bed with the decorative water pump and burial ground of our beloved budgie and numerous insects that I insisted on burying, Because that's what you do.

Don't kick the box.

I was worried about making new friends. My mum assured me that my long, pretty hair would gain me new friendships. We would be going to the school that she went to as a child, and some of her friends had children our age, so we were excited to meet them.  We could have our own rooms and decorate them how we liked. It would be ok.

Don't kick the box.

As the landscape began to change from stark, brown plains to blue lakes and grey rocks and the road had more curves and hills I began to look forward to seeing our family. Halloween was coming and we were bringing with us a giant pumpkin we grew in our garden to carve with our cousins.  We were going to stay with our aunt for a little bit, but soon our own place would be ready for us.

And after that, the oak box would have a place ready for it. A service and a tombstone in Ontario, ashes that would be safe and face no risk of being accidentally kicked ever again.

I didn't kick the box.