and she said.. "how you interpret the dream is probably more important than the dream itself"

When he opened the door the first time dust sprung forth in a cloud and the smell of old quickly enveloped him. The darkness inside was murky and he had trouble making anything out but with a few steps past the jam his pupils began to dilate.

"Wow," he thought to himself, "Lotta boxes here." He looked around the small aisle he was in and down at the cement floor with cobwebs and dust bunnies lounging around in the corners. All around him was cardboard, boxes of various sizes, big tv boxes, little shoe boxes, colored cardboard like the sort trendy dishware might come in, and even round boxes. "Can a box be round?" He didn't know so he kept moving deeper into the darkness, down the little alley bordered on both sides by a wall of boxes. Eventually he got far enough away from the door that he had to feel his way along, almost down onto his knees with his hands out in front of him waving back and forth slowly like an old radar dish.

He was glad when he found the flashlight. At first it startled him as he kicked it across the floor and a flash of seemingly-bright sun burst out at him like a stabbing knife. His eyes blinked in horror but already his mind had caught up and done the math. He felt around on the floor until he found it and, turning it on, he waved it around. It wasn't a good one, it wasn't bright or big, just a small plastic pen light. He could see maybe as far as 15 feet down the length of boxes stretching out in either direction and he could see that it was quite dinghy in here. The ceiling was low, with a single water pipe hanging down the center, a fire-extinguisher head every twenty feet or so. Other than that there were boxes. Lots of boxes. They weren't stacked directly upwards, exactly, more angled back from the aisle like the foot of a mountain. The ones closest to the bare floor he stood on were small to mid-sized, maybe as tall as his knee, but the farther back he could see, the higher they were piled, and the bigger they got. He wasn't exactly sure but in some spots very high up it seemed like he might see wall - real wall, not cardboard - but he couldn't be sure without climbing over a bunch of boxes.

He walked for awhile, flashing the light on briefly now and again to make sure he was staying in the middle of the path. The boxes seemed to change as he went along but if he concentrated really hard they all seemed the same. He wasn't sure if anything was changing, or not.

He stooped down to look at a small label on one of the boxes, shining the little pen light close down on it to concentrate the beam. It was white with blue lines on it, like an address label, and it had handwriting on it in black ink.

Pre-School, 1983 it read on the first line, then right below it East Corinth, ME.

"Ah, yes..." he thought. Pre-School. Vague memories floated back to him. A dreary-drizzle of a day, climbing up the steps to what he seemed to recall might be a curch. Nap time, with small mats and the lights dimmed down and him wide awake looking at the ceiling wondering who could come up with as ridiculus an idea as sleeping in the middle of the day.

He looked down at the box and touched it with his hand. When he pulled it away dark mishapen ovals were left where his finger tips had touched, bringing away the heavy layer of grey dust that coated the box. He reached down again and brushed the top off. Millions of tiny particles flew into the air, flipping over, turning around, swirling about, but almost before it began it was over and the dust settled back down around him. He pulled at the edge of one of the flaps and then, putting the pen light down, he used both hands to yank one flap out from beneath the other. He picked the pen light back up, held the box open with his other hand, and then he peeked inside.

Inside the box was a piece of blue material rolled up like a sleeping bag. It was sort of styrofoamy, but squishy too, like a thermarest for hiking. It had a waffle pattern along it's surface. He set the pen light down again and, in the dark, he muscled the roll out of the box. It was jammed in pretty tight and he had to pull hard but it worked it's way out and naturally started to unroll once it was free. He let go and grabbed for the light and by the time he pushed the little button on the clip the roll had turned itself into a small sleeping mat, no more than 4 feet long. He looked back in the box but it was empty.

He scratched his head and sat down on the blue mat, crossing his legs indian style. He looked back down the aisle towards the door, which at this distance looked like a small rectangle of glowing light. It was probably a mile away, he figured. He squished his fingers into the mat and rocked back and forth on his butt so he could jam his fingers under each cheek. He sat on his hands for a bit, enjoying the warmth, and he thought about pre-school again. It was over 20 years ago now but in some small ways it seemed like just yesterday. It was the year that the Return of the Jedi came out in theatres, he remembered. Along the long curve of road coming into the town of East Corinth was a small mint-green ranch house that he remembered going to quite a few times. A friend of his, from pre-school maybe, but he couldn't remember his name. He remembered the Star Wars toys and the bike..? Maybe an above-ground pool in the back. Or on the side? He couldn't be sure, but these weren't pre-school memories, not technically. He tried to concentrate better, thinking of the brown/tan rug in the church and the pull-out fake walls like in old grade-school gymnasiums. He tried to think about the toys in the corner - a kitchen-set, some ponies maybe, matchbox cars.. He wasn't sure about that, either.

Milk. A bulb went on somewhere inside his head. He remembered milk. It came in small 8 oz. cartons and they had it every day, like a ritual. Right before or after nap. Milk. This, he thought, was a sure thing. He grabbed for the box and rummaged around in it without the light. Something bounced. Something hit his hand. He grabbed at it and pulled it out and sure enough, a small carton of milk. He grabbed the pen light and read the label. He opened it up and smelt inside. It was slightly rank, like an old carton of milk would be if it was left in the recycling bin in the open air for a few days. It was old or faded or dusty, like the rest of this place. In fact - he looked down at what he was sitting on - the blue mat wasn't dirty either. He stopped, looking back at the door again, and he let the pen light go out. He sat in the dark, surrounded by hundreds and hundreds of boxes and let things slowly sink in.

He touched some boxes around him, not so much afraid or wary anymore. These boxes, he now realized, they were his. He might not have physically packed them or stacked them up but they were his and he could do with them what he pleased. He leaned back, still sitting on the mat, and layed his arms out on two boxes at his sides like armrests. He unfolded his legs and stretched them out, kicking a few small boxes aside. He leaned his head back, laughed, and sighed.

When he was ready, he got up, rolled the blue mat back up, tossed the milk carton into the box labeled Pre-School, 1983, and shoved the roll back in as best he could. He tossed the box behind him, grabbed his pen light, and strolled off into the dark, counting a random number of steps ahead of him.

When he got there he stopped, turned to his left or his right - it didn't really matter at this point - and pointed the light at the first box that struck his interest. He pulled it down from the stack and proceeded to open it up.