I gathered boxes, newspapers, packing tape, sharpies and started packing… again.
I tried not to think about how overwhelming it is to pack your whole life into boxes.
I tried not to.
I wrapped my vases, blue glass collection, photo albums, cookbooks, glasses, pitchers, candlesticks and my mother’s glass collection and placed them carefully in the egg carton boxes I had procured from the supermarket. My best friend came over and emptied out my linen closet, my bookshelves, and various nooks and crannies and labeled each box that she packed.
We worked quietly, lost in our own thoughts and the task at hand. I wanted to laugh. I wanted to joke. I wanted to exchange witty banter and laugh out loud until tears streamed down our faces.
But we worked quietly, lost in our own thoughts and the task at hand. This was the third time she stood by me, helping me pack up my world. Fortunately by now I have managed to take a little off the top and off the sides so that my world fits neatly into a small, three-bedroom apartment.
I noticed her sitting on tops of some boxes of books leafing through an old photo album. She dropped it on the floor and grabbed another, smiling at the glimpses into my younger life. I watched her on the boxes, and finally sat down on the floor.
“There have been so many things that have been painful these last four years,” I said, “But one thing that is so hard to get used to is not having a place of my own. A place that I can really call home, where I can have my gardens, sit on the porch and relax, you know? That’s been a very, very tough thing.”
She looked at me thoughtfully.
“You know what? Your home is there,” she said as she pointed at my heart. “Your home is right there in your heart. And if you can make it through ALL of this and realize that, then you can do just about anything.”
I looked at her, “Oh my GOD, you’re right! And you know what? I am about this close to being there. Now, let’s get off our asses and finish this.”