No one remembers. .
After many trips to the thrift store with boxes of books, kitchen utensils and assorted bric-a-brac, I have moved. The sale of the rambling old Victorian will close in two weeks. I am unpacking stuff at the new two flat. I don't have enough room for the junk I schlepped to the new place in spite of the weeding out completed during the move. I must shrink my inventory significantly.
The act of dumping the junk is surprisingly difficult. Holding an item and thinking about it carefully causes a trip down memory lane. There is the small ceramic bowl hand made by my son, now 34, when he was a senior in high school. There is the Nestle's Quick rabbit-head cup that all four of my kids used when they were small. There are old guidebooks from Southeast Asia picked up when I was living in Singapore back in the mid- eighties. There are several boxes of nice business and personal stationary with my old address that I had printed in 2004 when I thought I would be a solo consultant. And there are several boxes of busted harmonicas, saved for the day when I learn how to repair them (HA!! I have to face the fact that I am a "blow 'em and throw 'em" harp player). I don't need any of these things now, but they are reeking with sentiment and family history.
This accumulation of stuff is a symptom of the uniquely American disease of Affluenza. The expense of my horrific divorce has cured me of this malady; I am living in much reduced circumstances these days. Now I just need to complete the right-sizing of my life and feel grateful to be rid of all the shit I never wanted in the first place.
