I have been working in the bedroom/sitting room area, digging my way through my usual “personal memory things I cannot live without” and the accumulation of stuff gathered over the past few months and plopped into those rooms for convenience of knowing where they were – Christmas things, Mother’s papers . . . oh and the sickroom items, including the necessary bottle of Tabasco sauce to make meals brought up palatable. And piles of books, afghans and quilts . . . and a sewing machine.

This has been an ongoing project but Sunday I had a milestone moment: I took two large, green, flexibly expansive trash bags and filled them – filled them to maximum bloat – with things from the walk-in closet in the sitting room. I impressed myself. Even more impressive is that this did not leave the little room looking anywhere near empty.

What is scary is that each piece of stuff is not just a thing; I could tell a story about all of it. Even if there is no story, one would pop into my mind. And when there is a story, well, look out for the emotions. I cannot be like a dog, bending over and sending things flying through my legs. Actually, I think though that is how I got it out of the closet . . . then I sat down and sorted through it, bit by bit.

And when my two bags were filled, I had to pull them out walking backwards, using my leaning weight to keep them moving . . . and humming loudly so I would not hear the little voices of my little things calling to me.