Maybe she had been unconsciously postponing opening remaining boxes, strangely enough mostly crystal and cd boxes. Boxes with precious golden things and mementos from foreign far away beaches; little glasses with sand, other slightly bigger with tiny sea shells and rocks. Those she might have still kept from the first time her mother had been in a far away beach with amazing voluptuous shells in tortuous designs from a beach near a convent, from the place where, she was told, that delicious chocolate was made. Those boxes with crystal glasses in all distinct sizes which had been part of her deceased aunt’s duvet. The aunt she never knew, the aunt never to be married, the aunt who for her as a child simply meant that huge crystal glasses collection preciously kept in a glass doors wardrobe at her grandparents antique house. Days of that week went by with some of those boxes being opened to salvage the green colored glasses she cherished so much. And it took her days opening, rearranging and closing again boxes to realise that keeping such boxes closed for so long could mean she had not yet reached her place to be. As if it could mean, and show her every time her glance hit a shelf that she was still on the move, was still going ahead, had still other things and places to achieve. As if opening any of those boxes meant acknowledging that possibly nothing which really mattered would ever really change. And she was bound to be forever more or less where she started, minus some crystal handles broken along the way.