Moving is curious. I've lived in this house longer than any other house in my life (15 years) but I have experience packing up a home. Do I ever. We made three huge moves in 3 1/2 years. Boston to Washington, D.C., D.C. to Chicago and Chicago to Las Vegas . . . big. I specifically remember driving away from our house in Chicago and thinking about the fact that my "life" was in that moving van. My entire life. Of course, my life wasn't really in that moving van. Six of our children were split up between two cars . . . we had that. And that is everything.
Still, you sift through things.
The exercise of sifting and packing up my house happens to make me feel extremely melancholy. Pensive. Everything I really care about occupies a few lone bankers' boxes. Pictures, notes written expressing love, and mementos that remind me of relationships. You can't help but recognize that someday someone will toss that box. Maybe it'll be disbursed, but eventually . . . it'll go. Packing up a life (and those that have intertwined mine) is an interesting exercise.
Sometimes I snap out of the melancholy thing. Like when I realize people will take anything from the curb outside my house. How about a used foot bath? Happened.
Melancholy prevails these days. We are patiently waiting for a mortgage holder to decide they will accept our offer on a house we have been trying to buy since the first week in February. So we will move our belongings to storage. I am not complaining. I'm simply melancholy.