Buried in Boxes

Packing always seems to take forever, doesn't it? Maybe it has been particularly exhausting for me because I just did all of this with my condo so recently. It’s harder here though - this is a family home that hasn't been moved ever. There is decades of accumulated stuff to sort through and clear out. Also, it's a big house.

I come across occasional bits of Mom in this process, mostly paperwork, like an invitation to a charity fundraiser, but it tends to slow down the packing as I sit with it for a bit, trying to make it more significant, more meaningful than it is. I want to find a journal, a letter she wrote to me as a baby, some words from her directed to me, but all I find are faint traces of her - an old address book in her handwriting, notes from a charity meeting. I thought the pain of missing her had faded into a rather constant dull background noise, but this process has stirred it up and made it stronger. I wish she was here to talk to. I feel cheated of getting a chance to know her as an adult. I think we would have been good friends.

I think being here alone, being alone with my thoughts, tends to make me spiral down a bit. I’m looking forward to having the move over with.

I'm just about done, fortunately! A few more late nights of last minute organizing, then the moving crew will come to pick up the stuff going to Bath* and put a pile of boxes in the attic and I'll be off to stay with Mary for a while. I’ll be happy to not see another box again for a long time.

I feel the following xkcd comic applies to packing as well as home organization:

* Not actually Bath