Care and Packaging

I smiled to myself as I pressed an address label onto the recycled cardboard box, smoothing it with both hands. The spot where an old label had been, left a furry texture that felt oddly comforting, like the  soft underbelly of a brand new puppy.

It felt like I was handling a unicorn: The first Care Package from home.

Just the box was a thing to behold:

The box was the perfect size, the perfect shape. It was sturdy. Without dents or tears. It had structural integrity. And it had just been sitting around the house, collecting dust as I imagined all the trinkets I might fill it with.

In that area, I had been just as meticulous. I had selected things that would surprise and delight. Things that would make her laugh and roll her eyes. Things she'd asked for mixed it with things that I knew would make her smile. Even the address label bore the unmistakable brand of our silly familiarity.

I couldn't wait for her to see it.

Three strips of tape, perfectly aligned and unwrinkled, closed the top flaps so well that when I brought it up to the counter the postal clerk wouldn't think to offer an extra swath of adhesive for security's sake.

Though they would still ask if I was sending anything that was liquid-fragile-perishable-corrosive-perfumy-chemical-or-otherwise-dangerous? Did this include batteries? Live snakes? Illegally taken fish or wildlife? You aren't mailing crickets, are you?

I would answer without any humor.

I had learned that, to the postmaster, joking around about the cholesterol hazards of the boxes of candy sent out one Christmas wasn't really a laughing matter.

Neither was the text that arrived two days later:

"Ummm. So, apparently a bomb went off ... 700 feet away

We're all good, but there's another package that's suspicious. Maybe even more than one. IDK".

I was expecting a silly selfie and kudos for remembering to include her favorite snacks.

As I sat there staring in disbelief at my phone, searching in vain for breaking news, her face popped onto the screen.

She didn't want me to worry, but, moreover, she didn't want me to inundate her with a cascade of questions that she wouldn't be able to answer. I could hear the temper flair in her voice.

"All we know right now is that there was a report of an explosion on campus, and one person - possibly a staff member -- suffered minor injuries."

I started to speak, but she cut me off ...

"Don't worry, mom," she said, ignoring the oxymoron weighing down her words like an 800-pound gorilla sitting squarely on my chest. "We are going to be fine. One of my friend's dad is a firefighter here in the city. He's giving us all the information we need to stay safe."

We said our goodbyes and our I Love Yous, at the same time.

And then her father and I sat glued to our phones for the rest of the evening. Searching. Scrolling. E-mailing links to what we found to one another. And then, finally, to her.

It was a rollercoaster, with new reports of suspicious packages popping up all over campus. Our over-stretched minds couldn't fathom the idea that with heightened vigilance would come no small amount of false alarm.

We signed off and went to sleep once officials declared the situation to be under control. In the coming days, once the facts began to settle, and the whole thing felt less harrowing, I asked the only question I had kept myself from asking:

"I don't suppose you got the package I sent?"