It was my good fortune to help fill care packages. The church I work for sends them at Valentine's Day to those high school graduates who grew up in this town and have ventured out into wider skies. My own twins are in that category, having opted to study abroad for their college years.

 

Today is their twenty first birthday. Birthdays. Birthsday.

 

The boxes are bursting with homemade cookies, late night snacks, markers, granola for quick energy, personalized pink cards signed by a dozen locals who care about them, and a book called Rise Above It. Tucked in the spaces between are bubbles of affection. I know, because I felt them. A dozen women arrived for the Parade of Packing, finding ways to snuggle in one more brownie. Half of us had our eyes on a particular address, that of the child we have loved for eighteen or more years. 

 

The hands and conveyor belts that will ferry these boxes to sixty two dorm rooms and apartments have no idea. They can gauge the weight, and even shake it to discern whether it rattles. The international deliveries have a form inadequately describing the contents. But for those postal workers who handle thousands of pieces a day, the preciousness wrapped in cardboard goes undetected. 

 

Is it possible that I am a carrier for such bursts of goodwill, unbeknownst to me? I hope so.