I came into the room and found a box on the floor.

It was a big box, several feet by several feet by several feet.

It was on the shore of a beach and tropical waves were crashing in the background.

I turned the dial and the box was on a bed of pine needles in a forest with big trees.

I turned the knob again, and the box was in the southwest desert. It looked familiar, like someplace I’d been to myself.

I turned the knob, and the box was in the living room, on the floor. I opened the lid.

The box was full of papers and folders and notebooks. I picked one up.

Handwritten, in ink, was a story, with corrections and marginal notes, one paragraph crossed out, another with an arrow.

I read the story. Good story, well written.

I opened a folder. Papers wanted to spill out, notes, poems, a letter. I read some. Interesting. Someone writing about his life.

A notebook. Pages with dates, more notes, poems, pieces of poems with variations.

A folder was labeled with the name of the story inside. Another good story. The person was prolific.

Then a folder labeled correspondence. Hundreds of letters, some names I recognized.

Another folder, Student Work to be Returned. Papers in different handwriting, notes in ink suggesting possible revisions. I would have made the same suggestions.

Then a portfolio, photographs of different people at different stages in their lives, different clothes, some posed with various backgrounds.

At the bottom of the big box, loose, were magazines, journals, some books. I flipped through a few. On closer inspection I saw a recurring name, a page reference, and turning to that page, I saw sometimes a poem, sometimes an article, sometimes a story, all written by the same person who must have owned the box. He seemed nice. I’d like to meet him sometime.

I read more of the stories and poems, and said, I could have written that. Like minds.

People read him. He must have had a reputation, been an influence.

I read his name. Gary Sterling. Sometimes it was listed as Gary C. Sterling.

Hmm, I said, that’s my name.

Then I looked again at my name to be sure. Gary Sterling.

No wonder everything sounded familiar. I did write all of it.

So much, the box was full, spilling over.

My life in a box.

But wait! There’s more!

I’m still writing.

I’m going to need a bigger box.