It feels like I’ve been packing ever since college. Boxes of things sitting in corners my whole life. Why can’t I throw things away? What am I saving an old hummingbird feeder for? Sure I like hummingbirds. That’s why I have the feeder. But I don’t unpack it or hang it up or put sugar water in it, so my affection for hummingbirds is a moot point. Instead I’m gradually accepting that precious things are just garbage sitting in boxes. Boxed belongings are a sure sign of greed.

So each day I’m packing a box of things I want to take with me and unpacking a box of things I don’t need anymore. I’d like to say I’m throwing away a box of things I don’t need. In reality, I sift through each time capsule agonizing over some trinket or other. Digesting my past with the four stomachs of a cow, I sometimes need to ruminate over a memory before passing it. Some items survive 3 or 4 boxes before I fully detach.

When people see the things I throw out they exclaim, “You’re gonna want to keep THAT!” I tell them I did. Now I’m done keeping it. “Would you like to keep it?”

“Well… no.”