My parents, presiding as they are over an empty nest, came up with the wacky notion that my sister and I should get our long-forgotten randomnesses out of the spider-infested boxes in their attic (specifically, the area between the ceiling and the roof).
It’s a mysterious land of leaves and dust and fluffy, itchy insulation, where the adventurer must tread carefully on the supporting beams or plummet to an itchy demise.
After a certain amount of procrastination, we brought down all our sh– all our stuff and began the long process of oohing, ahing, and throwing away. Yesterday was the big day.
My sister is pictured here, with her husband giving moral support.
Some of the boxes disintegrated underneath when picked up. Several plastic bags dissolved when touched. It was exciting stuff. I found boxes stuffed with my old diaries – millions of words of pre-emo angst – and threw them in the bin. I am pleased to report that I did not then cease to exist (the concern which caused me to store them all in the first place).
It’s very, very sad to sort through your old loves and dreams and throw them away. I was reminded of several lives I almost had. My sister and I both slept uneasily last night, although we feel better today.
I also found: several porcelain dolls my grandmother made for me; a Bible from the 1870s; a silver purse; a string bag I made when I was ten and living in Papua New Guinea; a red silk bag with a bell-fastener; and. . . a cat skin.
I kept all of those, except the cat skin, which my grandmother (the other one) gave me long ago after assuring me it was secondhand when she found it. How. . . reassuring?
I did not find an enormous flower made of books. Perhaps next time. This is from bookshelfporn.com: