“You got a giant box,” my neighbor texts me. I’m sitting on a beach in Puerto Rico, reading and soaking in the sun. I turn to my husband, who is laying in the adjacent lounge chair, sliding my sunglasses up to the top of my head.
“Were you expecting any packages?” I ask, squinting.
“No,” he says. “Maybe a Christmas present?”
“From who?” I say. He shrugs and turns back to his own book. “Oh!” I think out loud. “Maybe Amazon auto-delivered a box of cat litter!”
“It’s just cat litter,” I type back. “Do you mind bringing it in for us?”
“I don’t think it is. It’s really big,” she replies.
“Yeah,” I say. “We order the extra large box.”
She doesn’t respond. So, with the mystery solved, I go back to our vacation, my soul unencumbered by any unknown entities sitting in boxes in my living room.
Then, we get home.
Here’s what I’m going to say: Our neighbor must have concluded we have hundreds of secret cats somewhere (not just the one visible cat), because the box we arrive home to find a week later is easily large enough to fit eight boxes of cat litter. It’s shocking to walk through the door and see something like that — a brown monolith a la 2001: A Space Odyssey — mysterious, imposing, waiting. Perhaps sentient?