The above scene is the end of my driveway. Piled with shit atop shit atop shit atop shit atop shit atop shit. The movers came. They arrived at 9ish, left at 4ish. There were six of them from Roadway Worldwide, and they were i-n-s-a-n-e. Like watching football players perform an opera. Boom, swoosh, boom, swoosh, boom, swoosh … one motion, quick as a lightning strike. Only I often felt as if I were watching a Band-Aid ripped off a scab. My life, placed into boxes and carted off.
The hardest thing about moving—hands down—is moving with children. In this case, my daughter. She’s 11 and wonderful and smart and always reading. She also really doesn’t want to leave New Rochelle, the only home she’s ever known. Hence, when she arrived home from camp, and the house was completely empty, well, it was ugly. Sobbing, pain. “I can’t believe this is happening … I can’t believe this is happening.” Then we had Cold Stone, and everything seemed a bit better.
To me, the lesson of moving cross country is a valuable one: We, as a species, have way too much shit in our houses. It’s almost a joke, how many things got tossed over the past few weeks. I probably made eight trips to the Salvation Army thrift store. We held a tag sale. We gave stuff away. This is purely an estimate, but I’d say we dropped, oh, 15 percent of our possessions. And you know what? I’ll never think of the stuff again. Never. T-shirts and mugs and back scratchers and such. Gone. Gone forever.
Anyhow, I’m exhausted. Interesting day …