The first time you’ll have lost a sister, just two months ago, and then headed 3,000 miles away from the Midwest and the East Coast and anyone who knows you, no clue what just happened, completely unmoored in grief—

And there it is, the box.

It is simple but unmistakable, sitting in the library-themed pub you’ve just ducked into. As you walked in, the parade of memories followed just behind and posted up at the table next to yours, and they’ve proceeded to gently but persistently make you aware that Something Is Not Right. And then you feel it, and you agree. Somehow, you know it’s a griefbox; and somehow, you’re afraid of what’s inside.

The first time you’re filming, editing, producing documentaries.

The first time you’re interviewing, recording, editing podcasts.

The first time you find yourself on a live camera crew, sitting in the white van, watching the producer dictate cameras in real time; perched on a mainstage rig, headset on, feeling the subtleties of panning left, right, up, down, in.