Declutter

Finally, we are cleaning out the two sheds. A mishmash of treasures from Minnesota, Georgia, Houston, Texas, Reno, NV, Elko, NV, Ely, NV, Fallon, NV, Henderson, NV, McGill, NV. Twenty-two years of a baby girl's lifetime. The teddy bear from Patrick. The bottle of sterile water that was used to baptize her in the NICU when another day was not promised. Those are the keepable treasures.

The drum set? She's never going to be in high school band again, it goes. Assorted stuffed animals I won at the fair in Elko, which brought her momentary joy, were donated. Books. OH MY GOD! John reads, I read, apparently, we don't do anything but read. Behind his back, I donate John's book to the hospital, behind my back, he puts them back on the shelves.

If only mental clutter were as easy. I still remember my best friend from elementary school's phone number, which ends in 3261. I remember every stupid comment I made in sixth grade. Every social faux pas I have made in my entire sixty-two years. Every hurtful statement thrown at me. The sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when I recall being teased and bullied. If only those could be tossed or donated.

But if I lost those memories, what else would I lose? My big sister lifting me onto the kitchen table, putting make-up on me so I could look pretty when she got ready for her date? The friends lost because death is cruel and careless about who it reaps. Would I have to relinquish the feelings of a spring morning of sunshine and the security of knowing my corner of the world was safe? Maybe I will eventually lose those memories, but until then, I will hoard them carefully. One good memory for every bad. Until the scale is balanced and I can sleep.

Deep thoughts on a Saturday afternoon while I'm avoiding work. Back to de-cluttering, my work crew is beginning to be suspicious.