Those of you who’ve moved houses a few times and had more than one or two relationships may be able to empathise more with this than those who haven’t, or maybe it’s just me. But there comes a time, in packing a house, in packing a life away, when suddenly you find yourself packing away things that bring back floods of memories. These tend to be ‘ornaments’ for me, although books, CDs, clothes can all do it; it tends to be the little gifts I’ve got or been given over the years.
Letters too. I think that’s why friday was quite hard – I was packing away my letters and photos; and there was a card from my dad… his untidy handwriting creeping it’s way across the card, and making me laugh and cry at the same time. His and my sense of humour were so close, that that one card, written from the top of a mountain, just carried me back. Even thinking about it now, it takes me to moments of time.
And today I packed up my (very dusty) windowsill. These are the ornaments that will remain packed until I have a place of my own, in a box with photos and paintings, they will lie. And they bring back those memories of people and places. I think that it’s the hardest thing about moving – making me work through the ends of relationships, the passing of friendships, the postcards lovingly written and pinned or propped in place.
Virtually all I own is packed away. My life has disappeared into little boxes. And I find it hard to remember that I exist, sometimes, when there’s so little evidence of it. I think I’m just in a very odd mood tonight. The combination of such gregarious people and the sudden loneliness of an empty house, a house where nearly all entertainments have disappeared has left me feeling decidedly alone.
