It's just a normal box. It sits in the corner of the lonely room, like a cactus on the desert floor, among such ordinary things as a lamp, an alarm clock, and a holy Bible. With the box resting on top, I could see the brown perimeter of the Bible, the way you see a church steeple in a bank of clouds. The family Bible is passed down from generation to generation, as evidenced by the cracked skin and rough brown edges like a cowboy's face and hands. It is not clear to any outsider why such a boring and simple box should contain something so important. I'm surprised that this lonely box isn't embraced by my family book, entwining it in its branches and lifting it skyward as the family tree continually grows. The cardboard box is white; it is square and insignificantly small, since all the individual particles of sand are found on a beach. It's lightweight, and I wonder if the content disappeared within two years, never to be seen again. On each side there is the writing "Priority Mail" in white, on a blue and red background. Something about the word “priority” sends shivers down my spine and a sense of dread crushes me. A price tag listed the contents as $5.25 and an address listed the box as being sent to the Carroll Veterinary Clinic in Hillsville, Virginia. The top of the box appears scarred, almost as if it is suffering from the weight of the injured family. It is easy to see by eye that the box has only been opened once or twice, and that is why it seems of little value to outsiders. It is no longer protected with tape; tape has long served its purpose and has instead been replaced with the less reliable art of flap folding. The tape is like a sealant of ancient royal tombs, while the folding of the flaps is used to box unidentified objects... in the center of the paper... elbow grease. He slept more and lost weight by eating less and less. In the end he looked so pitiful that I couldn't help but cry every time I saw him. His pain was my pain, his suffering was my suffering. He struggled to do simple things like walking and jumping. It was almost like he was trying to hide the pain from me, but I could see it in those intricate orbs called eyes. The sparkle and color had been stolen from them, and death had made its way not only into my cat's soul, but into our entire family. That night pain and death knocked on our door and unleashed their unwanted wrath. Black smoke covered my eyes and I moved closer to Bazzle, but I knew it was already too late. The halos were a hidden comfort to his eyes, and he had an almost golden hue around him. I said, "I love you, Bazzle," and he was carried out the door. He never came back.