I haven’t accumulated much over the past four years. I stemmed my compulsive book buying with frequent visits to the library. The New Yorkers accumulate until I recycle them. I’m net negative clothes-wise. Kitchenware, about even, so what should I chuck? Many of my rarely-used things don’t hang around to be used, they’re 3D keepsakes, memories on a shelf. More life-like than photographs, which I rarely take and always lose, these small icons create the context within which I live. My space.

Amy insist that we have too many blankets, so we’ll lose a few of those this weekend. Yea, I suppose we have knick knacks up the ying yang, but we’re grandparents now. The older one gets, the more one becomes entitled, even obligated to maintain a healthy supply of ceramic winged pigs, crockery elephants, and several sets of garishly painted maracas. Call ‘em color, but we’d hardly qualify as human without these.

I’m a soft-hearted gardener, too. I prune by snipping here and there, not by wrecking devastation; with clippers, not the hedge trimmers. I’m certain to fill a box or two with stuff I’m sure I’ll never unpack. Stuff too complicated to sort through and too confusing to choose from, and I will not fuss over these. These represent those parts of myself I have not yet sorted out, and might never figure out how to sort out. They do not qualify as trash. They serve an as of yet unknown purpose which I’m comfortable holding, even if we need to rent a little extra storage to hold ‘em.

I will not forget that the purpose of moving must live far beyond merely leaving some stuff behind, and that nobody ever recovers what they abandon behind them. So, I’ll carry forward, bringing more than the currently useful. The wind’s sure to catch enough eventually, without my over-active winnowing right now.

©2012 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

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