The good news is we've started the purging of things for our move.
The bad news is there are about seventeen more stacks filled up the rim just like this one here.
What's inside, you ask?
The boxes are labeled "Poems, writings, and such"
Looks like I must've been saving all these papers to sort through for a rainy day.
I've only peeked but so far I've found: teacher's books, manuals, xerox copies of every grammar lesson known to man (do they even use a xerox machines in schools anymore?), mugs, plaques, gifts, my own stories, college poems, mindless doodles, procrastinating sketches, student papers still uncorrected, student papers I can't part with, graduate school study notes that still smell like Twizzlers and hot cocoa, and such. Oh, there is so much such I can hardly see straight.
The horrible thing is I can barely throw any of them away, even now, thirteen years later.
I drive around in a beat up minivan that hasn't had a working radio in it since 2009. My clothes are either thrift store finds or things I've been hanging onto since the cicadas were last here. Jewelry remains something for "the future" when I finally shop for that wardrobe from Athleta. One would think I do not become attached to things.
But hell if I can part with any of this paper.
Or the egg separator that belonged to Boompa. Or her glass measuring cup with the nearly invisible red lines where 1/2 c. once was. Or her two-tone wooden chopping board. Or my grandfather's hearing aid and a Kodak tube filled with his gray hair I stole from his hairbrush. Or the ring he once made from melted tooth fillings (I know). Or Jimmy's blue island T shirt I sleep with every night; it still kind of smells like him after a run. Or his poetry and stories that let me hear his voice in my head just like he is sitting right next to me.
No, I won't be throwing the papers away.
I'm gonna need a bigger truck to tow it along, is all.