It feels strange to say “Good morning” to an empty doorway, but I know someone is there.

Semi-early riser, 7 am deliveries show up at my door. I don’t remember why I opened my door the first time. I think I heard a clink or a smack—I don’t quite remember which. But I opened the door with a tentative inquiry, “Hello..?” The sunshine drifted through and pointed to a ring-sized box on my doormat. I lifted the tan, velvet box and filled my heart with expectation. The box did not open. I don’t need mystery in my life. The box lands in the trash, and I continue with my day.

Each day, the same morning clinking occurs. Each day, a new box that I am unable to open. I wait at the door and stare at 6:59 - no box. After I blink, the box is there and bigger than before. I have slammed the door on the box, thrown the box down the steps, stomped on the box. None of the boxes go away. I now have a pile of boxes accumulating in my living room and no idea how to throw them out. With confusion mounting, I decide to create art pieces from the boxes and make the best of the situation, making lemonade out of my lemons.