At the dawn of a new summer,

I pack myself into a cardboard box,

Stuffed under old baby blankets

And broken board games.

For about a year, I stretch my legs,

Before I cram myself back inside.

Sharing a space with ragged quilts

And a rusty flour sifter.

At the end of winter flurries, I crawl home to the only set of walls I've ever known. Thick, crispy strands of grass cling to my bare hands and feet, welcoming me to the dry earth. One at a time; pink, chipped bricks pull me onto the porch, scraping my knees against the concrete. The weary windowpanes fog up when face-to-face with my soda pop breath. Behind the condensation, a sticky dining room awaits me. Behind the condensation, a musty carpet floor prepares to envelop me. Behind the condensation, strangers arrange place settings in their dining room. Their socks glide across fresh tile, threads catching on the grout. My fingers cut through the fog; warm drops of my breath slide down the slopes of my knuckles. Children sprawled across the aged carpet play with their toys as I did once. The strangers hold them with familiarity, their lungs inhaling pristine air with the faint taste of old newspaper. My hands claw at the doorknob, but it no longer fits in the palm of my hand. I yank and I tug like a child on their mother's arm, but she's no longer mine.