I bought a house 2 weeks ago, just started packing a few days ago, and I move in less than 3 weeks. It’s been raining for 3 days. It is damp and gray and the air is thick with melancholy.
Packing has been an emotional mindfuck. It’s not just a matter of putting shit into boxes and taping them up, because that would be easy, a pain in the ass, but easy. Each room, each part of our previous life together must be examined, categorized, dissected and separated. The camcorder and tapes we filmed the birth of our children on, the wedding photo’s, the collection of sentimental cards, notes and items collected over the past decade together. Birth certificates, marriage licenses, passports, books, souvenirs. The junk drawer filled with items, each with its own story attached. I’m tangled in a web of the past and I know the only way out the back is through the front.
I take a deep breath, turn up the music, and tackle drawer after drawer, shelf after shelf, closet after closet. I let the tears come when they must, the smiles emerge when they choose, and the occasional laughter echo through the emptiness of barren rooms.
This is the embodiment of closure. Finality. Where we becomes me. Yes, it’s just stuff, but stuff has a way of bringing you to your knees when you least expect it. I am an extremely sentimental creature, it’s my nature. I collect random items of no apparent value other than the reminder of the event it is attached to. There is a lot of purging to do in this area. It is extremely difficult, and also incredibly cathartic.
It is not always easy to move on from the past. But it is far more detrimental to hold on to it, allowing it to obstruct our path of progress and hinder our essential self-growth.
Each box is a metaphor. Each item a story. Every box that closes is the end of a chapter, a new one to be rewritten on a new shelf, in a new home, and a new life.