The Movers

When I was little, seven or eight, we moved from Chicago to Columbus.
Everything was packed into cardboard boxes. The boxes each got a numbered sticker. Then, they were put into trucks, and arrived at the new house a few days later.
My brother and I collected all of the stickers.
Red.
Blue.
A few yellow ones.
I can’t remember the highest numbers. They were in the hundreds.
But in the end, we never did find the sticker with the number one on it.
Meanwhile, our parents were trying to figure out just what the hell is in each box.