I spent a chunk of last month searching for, re-assembling, and generally coveting medium cardboard boxes because I was donating Demeter's books to the annual Times-Colonist book drive, and my mother was a voracious reader.
I ended up with 19 boxes of books: my Friend of the Right Hand transported 16 of them, and one of Demeter's merciful neighbours kindly fitted the other three into her car, alongside another neighbour's 3-box donation.
At the coffee shop, I mulled over whether I should take the abandoned box, seeing as the book drive is long over, and reasoned my recent experience indicates that containers are hard to come by -- and there are at least a boxful of books left in Demeter's apartment. I figured that if the box was still there, I was meant to take it home.
It was. I did. I shook out the grass and leaves and insects first.
At home, I put it out where I would see it and remember it.
Now I don't have the heart to move it.
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