there wasn't much to his kitchen box--it rattled around with every movement. when he'd originally left for the peace corps, he'd sold all of his kitchen stuff beforehand. even though he had enough money to get himself into the peace corps program, the kitchen appliances were worth the most. he'd sold them all in a lot to a college freshman, paid for by his parents... he almost felt bad charging them full price for his stand mixer. but he never used it. he figured their son wouldn't either, but then again, his son could re-sell it and charge full price too.

maybe there was less of a chance of him holding on to his old life, without all of his shit. his kitchen box was sad, only really holding his dollar store bachelor pad essentials: two plates, two bowls, a mug, and a bundle of cutlery held together with a rubber band. paired with a handful of reusable cups from various restaurants and a salt and pepper shaker set that his mom wanted to take ("your father loved these, and i told him i'd get rid of them the minute he died. i can't bear to throw them out"). he planned on using some of his inheritance on buying more kitchen stuff, but he had more important things on his mind.

he's lived with women before. he's shared bathrooms with women before. granted, most of his life was spent sharing a bathroom with his own mother, but he had a female roommate in college. he'd lived with a girlfriend or two in his time. he knew damn well that he needed to keep his all-in-one shampoo / body wash on his side of the shower, and that he should always make sure the hair is rinsed off the bar of soap. he knew the rule about putting the seat down (even after his ultra progressive roommate who insisted that, since men have to put the seat up every time, women should have to put the seat down too).

his bathroom box is even more empty than his kitchen box. if he wasn't so particular about his boxes being separate, he could have combined the kitchen and bathroom boxes together. but... what kind of monster does that? he couldn't bear to imagine his soap touching his plates. even though he wrapped each plate in a t-shirt (all two of them) it was still the mental thought. he had plenty in his life to worry about (namely moving in with his ex-girlfriend, as friends... if they could even be called that) but he was choosing to control that one thing, putting his bathroom stuff in a separate box from his kitchen stuff.

those were the boxes that were the heaviest. the first time he'd moved out of his parents' house when he was younger, he'd stuffed all of his clothes in a few trash bags, knowing he was going to throw them in the laundry eventually anyway. but this time, these were the boxes that were packed by his mother. she'd taken care to fold each shirt, each pair of pants. she packed the shirts she didn't like in one box, and the ones she did like in another. normally he would have shooed her away from packing his stuff, especially considering it took her twice as long as it would have if he'd done it... but she needed it. she needed something. in earlier years, she'd ironed his dad's shirts, set out an outfit for him every day, made his lunch. after he'd retired, she made him breakfast every morning, set out the newspaper for him. after he passed, she had no shirts to iron, no newspaper to set out.

micah was afraid of leaving her alone. he hated the idea that she was by herself in the house--what if someone broke in? or, more likely... what if she woke up one morning, forgetting that her husband had died, rolled over in bed to see him, and found him gone? micah was afraid she would fall back into that deep hole of depression, now that her husband was gone, and her sons (one biological, one nephew) had moved out, her parents and sister gone. no one left but the boys, and they didn't need her anymore.

he only had one outfit on hangers--the button-up shirt and dress pants he'd worn at his last job interview. admittedly he hadn't been trying terribly hard to find a new job, mainly because he didn't feel ready for it, but he knew he was being lazy. depressed was a better word, but he didn't want to admit that yet. still, he'd felt good about the job interview, at least for the moment, until he didn't get a call back that day. or that week. or...ever. he'd called a couple days after, expressing his interest and excitement, and they'd politely told him they'd call him. so he waited until the next week, called to check in--a new person had answered the phone, and said they'd call him. another week went by, and he called again, with the same person answering again. the voice was quieter this time. bro. they hired me instead of you. he could tell the other person was throwing him a bone, rather than rubbing it in his face; he felt pitied, almost.

still, he didn't tell his mom the truth. or max. or anyone, really. anyone that asked, he told them the same thing: still no news, but i'm hoping they'll call me soon! instead, he kept his interview clothes on a hanger, knowing he wouldn't want to iron them. especially since his mom did a way better job at it, and he didn't want to admit defeat and have her iron them again for another interview. they'd be put to use soon. hopefully.