September 18, 2012
I am lifting my things from their places, wrapping them in newspaper and placing them in boxes. I get to keep the things, and in a couple of months I will unwrap them and find them new places. But these old places will be someone else’s. It has been so long since I have moved, and this is the house where I became an adult, raised my family, celebrated so much happiness, met so much grief head-in. There is a lump on my throat as everything disappears, as the “clutter” is removed so the house will look to a potential buyer like it could be theirs, like their things would fit its spaces. But the clutter is my past, my stories, and they unscroll behind my eyes as these simple objects leave their familiar context to wait in limbo for the coming changes.