For someone so sentimental about stuff, it surprises me how little I do carry, and then I find lost treasures in corners, hidden away, and remember how much I carry.
Three years has been a span, in most cities, but the years have piled on, just the same.
The wardrobe has changed and so has the library. But they still remain, reminding me faintly of the time x years ago when that particular item was my favorite.
I may not wear it, nor read it often. But it remains there, sometimes a talisman, sometimes a reminder. Sometimes just a memory of good times and favorites.
I have never been good at throwing away things. That job was left to my poor hapless mother. I could blame her when I missed something rather than visit the dumping bin myself.
Once again I find myself facing suitcases. My faithfuls that have been with me for the past 10 years as I moved from place to place. Somehow all I own seems to fit into them, everytime. Even though my luggage has grown.
I find myself packing again. This time its a little different. There is a severence of ties now. Subtle, but there. The last time it was something similar was when I left home. But then I still had the almirah at home, with my things, which I left with my memories.
Some still remain. I go home and open it and stand, looking at a skirt here, a top there, bringing back memories, flooding my brain, in one look. I look at my coloring book from pre-school and remember how it was.
Now I have no almirah to store my memories in. Some, as usual I am glad to let go, some others beckon to me. And yet more want to remain just for the semblance of normalness in life. To tell me this is not a permanent upheaval, that life will continue just as it is.
That living will be the same, albeit a little different. But I hope it will not be so different that I leave myself behind. And so, I dig through my life, and sort.