I’m surrounded by boxes. Everywhere I go in the house, there’s something in my way, there’s something threatening to break my neck. I guess this would suit as a slap-in-the-face metaphor for how we get weighed down by our past, or the anxiety of leaving home, but once you’ve tripped over them enough times, the boxes are real enough, and more nuisance than sentiment.
The contents of these boxes and piles are mostly the product of my married life, and in particular the last five years, where having our own house meant we bought, and bought, and bought (because you need…stuff, all the time you need to spend money and bring heavy objects home, it’s what makes the developed world go around) and we’re taking a fresh look at this treasure and deciding what’s worth taking with us to the United States. Continue reading