A therapist may ask you to describe what the box looks like, what it feels like, what happens when you pick it up (no clue, don’t care, and it shakes like a banshee out of hell). But you’re not with a therapist, you’re alone in a city you haven’t been to for 13 years. Weirdly, instean, you find yourself thinking about soil. Specifically, the soil of this place, and metaphorically, how you arrived here 13 years ago with a deep wound, one no one in your life knew how to dress. You’d barely had time to go home for her funeral services before coming here—this place, more than anywhere else, was a landscape for your pain. Is it any wonder your wound seeped into this ground?