The second box

The cup arrived in three pieces and a very polite email. I had wrapped it the way I wrap things for the people who pick them up from the studio: a sheet of paper, a little air, a box that was almost the right size. The truck did the rest. Paper is not a shock absorber. Almost is not a fit.

Packing is a second making, and it is the one buyers remember if you get it wrong. They do not see the hour at the wheel. They see the corner that was allowed to touch cardboard.

For anything that can chip, I use a box inside a box now, and enough filler that the inner box cannot walk. I shake it once, the way a sorting belt will. If I hear a click, I open it and start over. Fiber wants to breathe. Candles and soap do not want a hot route in July. A short care note, written the way you would text a friend, prevents more bad reviews than a logo on the tape.

Tracking is part of the same promise. The day it leaves, the number goes on the order. Not because a platform asked. Because a person is picturing the package on a porch and deserves to know it is actually moving.

I still write a line on the lid sometimes, just the person’s name. It does not make the ceramic stronger. It reminds me whose kitchen the cup is going to, which is a useful thing to remember while you are taping a seam you were about to call good enough.