It's just a regular box. It sits in the corner of a lonely room, like a cactus on the desert floor, among normal objects like a lamp, an alarm clock, and a Holy Bible. With the box sitting on top, I could see the brown perimeter of the Bible, the way you see a church steeple in a cloud bank. The family bible is passed down from generation to generation, as evidenced by the cracked leather and rough brown edges like a cowboy's face and hands. It's hard for an outsider to understand why such a boring and simple box would cover something so important. I'm surprised this lonely box isn't embraced by my family book, entwining it in its branches and lifting it skyward as the family tree continually grows. The cardboard box is white; it is square and insignificantly small, because all the individual sand particles are on a beach. It's light, making me wonder if the content disappeared within two years, never to be seen again. Each side has the words "Priority Mail" in white, on a blue and red background. Something about the word “priority” sends a shiver down my spine and a feeling of dread crushes me. A price tag listed the contents as $5.25 and an address indicated the box was to be sent to Carroll Veterinary Clinic in Hillsville, Virginia. The top of the box appears scarred, almost as if it is suffering from the baggage of family wounds. It is easy to see with the naked eye that the box has only been opened once or twice, and that is why it seems of little value to outsiders. It is no longer protected by tape; the tape has long served its purpose and is replaced by the less reliable art of flap folding. Duct tape is like a sealant for ancient tombs of royalty, while flap folding is for wrapping unidentifiable objects...... middle of paper...... elbow grease . He slept more and lost weight by eating less and less. Finally, he looked so pitiful, it was all I could do not to cry every time I saw him. His pain was my pain, his suffering was my suffering. He had difficulty doing simple things like walking and jumping. It was almost as if he was trying to hide his pain from me, but I could see it in those intricate orbs called eyes. The luster and color had been stolen from them and death crept not only into my cat's soul, but throughout our entire home. That night, grief and death knocked at our door and released their unwanted anger. Black smoke covered my eyes and I reached out for Bazzle, but I knew it was already too late. The halos were a hidden comfort to his eyes, and he almost had a golden hue around him. I said, “I love you, Bazzle,” and he was led out the door. He never came back.