I’m trying to make you fit here, trying to incorporate you into the our family life, as the instructions say. But you are large and you rattle whenever we walk, and I don’t know where to put you.
You are meant to be a haven. A safe place for our protective, new puppy. But instead, Oatmeal is scared of you. I place his food inside and he eats it, one piece at a time, backing out between every bite.
Aren’t we all afraid of being trapped?
Crate, you arrived on Sunday evening. I was awaiting another arrival that day, though not in a box. At midnight, I was going to pick up my mom from the bus station. Spring break. A haven. A safe, quiet moment in the chaos of the school year. We were going to Cancun, not that you care. Mom and my sister and I. And then we had to come up with a backup plan. No international travel, no airplanes. So we decided we’d all go to Mom’s house. A haven. A secure place, away from stress and work, where we cook together and do puzzles and play games.
Oatmeal doesn’t want to be stuck inside a crate. He backs out as soon as he’s gotten his food or his toy. But I made a way for him – I opened the back panel of the crate so he can walk all the way through. I thought maybe he’d feel better with an escape hatch.
My husband and I talked about going down to Mom’s. My sister can’t come anymore. She’s been exposed to the virus too much, and my mom is over 70. But R and I could go. “What if they declare shelter-in-place while we’re down there? What if they close down travel?” My husband is afraid of getting trapped. He sticks his head in for a moment, then backs out.
And now I see why we’re having so much trouble integrating you into our life, dear Crate. You are a haven. You are a trap. None of us is quite sure which.
Dear Dying IKEA Palm, 