Prompt Images
It’s 2001. I just got back to my dorm room, and the light on my landline answering machine blinks flirtatiously. I press the button and angels sing. It’s the front desk, telling me there’s a package waiting for me in the lobby.
I know my mom sent it. She’s the only one who does this for me: lovingly packaging little trinkets into a cardboard box, writing my name and address with her impeccable penmanship, and then bringing it to the post office to be weighed and paid and shipped to College Park, Maryland, where her daughter will skip to the elevator, zip to the community assistant on duty, and flip open the box.
Candy. A pair of stretchy gloves for attending increasingly chilly autumnal football games. A crystal making kit. Mad Libs. Stationery. Dumb little plastic things she got at a weird discount store called Odd Job Trading.
I’ll be honest; it truly does not matter what items come in the box. It’s just that the box exists.
That it materialized from love. That it was not for a birthday or to celebrate anything. It was a box filled with spontaneous love, addressed to me, and I got to open it and investigate the various “little ditty bop things,” as my mom called them, that she saw while out shopping and thinking of her daughter.
This story might have you believe that my love language is ‘receiving gifts.’ In fact, nothing could be further from the truth. I don’t necessarily even believe in the four Love Languages™. Sometimes I’m not even sure I necessarily believe in Love™. But gifts, generally, are not super important to me. Meh.
But may I offer as a counterpoint: these care packages
Three separate times this summer, I received a care package that truly sent me. The occasions were different, but the way they made me feel so loved, so seen, so cared for… it’s hard to put into words, but I’ve been trying.
A Disheveled Box of Luck & Triumph
I was three weeks out from running Badwater 135, an ultramarathon across Death Valley, when I went to the package room in my building and saw a bedraggled box with my apartment number scrawled on it in permanent marker. Its seams looked like they had been weakened by days of war; its tape hung on for dear life. I brought it up to my room and—surgical protocol be damned—didn’t even need a sharp object to access its insides.
The return address read Brooklyn, and I knew instantly who sent this box of goodies. My heart leapt. I could have cried. But instead, I set up my iPhone and did a 7-minute unboxing video for two of my favorite people. The box was an absolute mess—no packing peanuts or air packets to hold things in place—but the utter chaos only made me love it more.
I sorted through a curated selection of things intended to make my 135-mile desert adventure less painful: peanut butter packets, cooling towels, SPF lip balm. I giggled at the dozens of runaway Post-It Notes—once lovingly stuck to the various items within the box—and enjoyed the added mystery of figuring out which item came with which note.
I’m still making my way through the items from the care package, which means I think of Matt and Alison every time I have a little bite of the last bar of Tony’s Chocolonely. Every time I cool off with a post-run Otter Pop. Every time I look at the last bag of Dot’s Pretzels that I can’t bring myself to eat because I don’t want it to be over.
Silly, uplifting, full of unexpected treasures. I’m more of a ‘words of affirmation’ girl, so I’ve put the Post-It Notes on my refrigerator. They make me smile every time.
A Meticulous Box of Consolation & Comfort
Well, that was delightful, wasn’t it? Care packages as a reminder that life is so good, so pure, so full of joyful and warm people who love you and celebrate you at every opportunity.
But at the risk of evoking your pity, gentle reader, my summer had been far from fun. I spent most of my weekends driving up and down I-95 to visit my dad, who spent weeks in the hospital, in a physical rehab center, or housebound by the rapid and confusing progression of various medical conditions, namely—sing along if you know the words—cancer. I spent the balance of my weekdays feeling guilty about NOT being in New Jersey to provide more support. Wondering whether there was a chance he’d recover fully, or partially, or at all. Trying to keep my head on straight and eke out miniature moments of the artist formerly known as joy. To be honest and not belabor the point further, everything sucked.
I hate how he died. It is so unlike how he lived. And someday, when I have both the courage and composure, and when I don’t detest every word I write, I will dive deeper into this. But for now, I want to tell you about the care package my friend Laura sent as a means to offer her condolences.
I was at my sister’s house when it arrived, neatly boxed and addressed with a penmanship resembling a pristine typeface or font, harkening back to the care packages my mom sent. I opened it to find a handmade card that was so meticulously drawn and written that it would make your eyes water. “Because all store bought sympathy cards suck,” she wrote, truthfully.
Inside the tidy box, packed with tissue paper to secure the valuables, included a beautiful wood wick candle and some bougee artisanal nuts. Laura also packed ramen, peanut butter, and soy sauce as an homage to the meals we’ve made with a Jet Boil while camping together. But perhaps the best item in the box was a package of Moose Munch, caramel popcorn drizzled in chocolate, which my sister and I ate in its entirety while watching trash escapism TV.
You see, Laura is good at everything. Running, camping, knowing music from before she was born, planning trips, criminal forensics, reading at a blistering pace. But her emotional intelligence is truly what sets her apart from the majority of my friends, many whom remain clueless about how to navigate someone else’s grief because they are too scared, self-involved, or stupid to engage. There’s a cutting edge and anger behind my saying that, I’m aware. It’s just that you can only hear the words “let me know if I can do anything” so many times before you realize how absolutely gutless, empty, and unhelpful they are.
Laura’s love language is ‘acts of service,’ which she bestows on her loved ones like she means it. She shows up for people in ways big and small, rain or shine, no matter how good or bad things are going.
Anticipation. Proactivity. Moose munch. That’s all it takes, folks.
A Padded Envelope from People You’ve Mostly Never Met
“Did you check your mail today?” my sister texted, knowing the myriad ways I am negligent.
I replied, “No, should I?” before stumbling to my mailbox and package room to find a padded envelope containing purple journal with a return address reading “The Prompt Fam.” My eyes welled up. I already knew.
This journal was filled with the kindest, most sincere condolences from my fellow writers from this very publication. Words more personal and therapeutic than from people I’ve known my entire life. Words I’ve read over and over again, their healing powers emanating outwardly from the pages of this purple journal. These words went far beyond “I’m sorry for your loss,” and into how and why my sister and I have prompted joy and how we’ve impacted others from The Prompt community. If ever you’re feeling down or experiencing the existential ennui that follows losing someone so vibrant and important to your life, getting a tight summary of why people care about you and your impact on them will surely lift you up.
This is why we should all be friends with more writers. Meeting this group of extraordinary humans—many whom I’ve never met in person and only read their words or seen their faces on video calls—is truly the proudest accomplishment of all the years and hours I’ve spent on The Prompt.
As so-called ‘Love Languages’ go, I don’t crave gifts; they’re not paramount to my feeling attached and connected to someone or feeling loved. But this summer and upon reflection, I’ve learned that care packages transcend and translate every Love Language. They are words of affirmation. They are quality time. They are gifts. They are acts of service.
They don’t have to be filled with anything expensive, extraordinary, or on the nose. Sometimes, it’s just the simple act of sending anything at all.
RELATED
