This didn't mean that I didn't make every attempt to cull stuff before this last move, which may well be our final one. I went through folders, shredding and recycling old bills, university essays, and letters, keeping a few representative samples for posterity (who, no doubt, will trash them without a thought). I carried bags of books to donate to the library, and rid ourselves of toys, knickknacks, and clothes.
I then started a long series of trips with my trusty collapsible red wagon laden with boxes, bags, Christmas decorations, and filing cabinets, fortunately, downhill. Once there, I carefully piled the items in the living room, in the reverse order of how they were to be placed in the storage locker.
My comings and goings did not go unnoticed by my apartment neighbours, who usually kept their comments to admiring ones about the collapsible red wagon - surely one of my wisest purchases, and thus a rare thing.
I was about to maneuver my wagon into the elevator after returning from a trundle-and-drop, when a man tried to emerge, spotted me, and realized he was on the wrong floor. I told him I'd wait.
He said he'd seen me on several occasions and asked if we were moving. This was several weeks before we were to give notice to the building manager, so I replied, "No, we're just cleaning out the storage locker."
My, how his eyes gleamed!
"Are you clearing it out? Because we could use two."
Golly, I thought. Two storage lockers, old man? You need to let stuff go.
Naturally, I didn't say this out loud. I assured him we still need it. And so will whoever comes after us.
Two storage lockers. Geez. And I'd been ashamed of the stuff in our one locker, much of which simply should not have made the trip from Hades.
Even our larger locker is too damn full, but letting go, I've learned, has to be done in stages.
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