This letter needs be especially brief, as I am in the most intimate and intensive phase of moving. When I say this to people they universally respond: Oh my — moving is the absolute worst! I do not disagree.
In my case, I am moving myself — that is, I am packing my own boxes and taking them in phases to the place where they will be stored until I find a permanent arrangement. This kind of intimacy can be a minefield of emotion. Everything that has comprised the pieces of your life confronts you, things from your childhood and things from your children’s childhood; and you must make a decision about them: Do I keep lugging this around, or do I toss it? What about that card your sons made you for Mother’s Day 25 years ago? And their wrestling ribbons? Does anyone care about the letters written to you by your grandmother?
All my predecessors are gone: my grandparents and my parents; even my aunts and uncles. My three son are grown. They probably aren’t even aware that the corners of my minuscule existence become increasingly filled with such accoutrements. You see, I will never throw them out. That is a decision they will have to make when they clean out the residual elements of my life once I am gone.
This move has proven to be a tipping point: My boxes and treasure-stores of family notes, memoirs, drawings, cards, photos and wrestling medals have overtaken the amount of furniture I possess. I am not a hoarder. I simply cannot bear to part with the little pieces of life I have built and that have been built around me. These are the things which, for me, are my home.
~ Best regards, etc