Little Boxes

Interior photograph of a dilapidated house. Outside the window there is a tree.

The boxes on the hillside weren’t meant to last. They kept out the spiders and mould for as long as they were cared for; eventually no one cared enough to sweep and polish and mend.

Like peeling paint on cladding, once-held ideas shed in slivers and revealed a void that used to be invisible to dream-led minds.

When a better way of being came into reach, the people left to live closer to the trees.

[This microfiction was first published online by Paragraph Planet.]