There’s something cathartic about cleaning house and tossing out years of stuff. The junk truck came today, and two polite young men took away several pounds of memories.
Oh, I was sad about the disposal of memories. There was the wooden stool I’d used as a schoolteacher years ago. Recently, it had become a plant stand and was warped and stained. Then there was my mother’s old television set. You know, the big kind with all the electronics sticking out behind.
I got rid of the wingback chair Little Kitty had ruined over the years she’d lived in my basement. And there was a chair my mom had bought at a yard sale for my kitchen.
But getting rid of that stuff felt good. After all, I no longer need it. It is simply clutter. It just takes up space. And some day, my kids will have to get rid of that stuff. So I decided to do that for them while I’m still able.
I didn’t do it for my mother, and I regret that. She left it to me to clean up after she was gone. Served me right, I guess, for not taking time to help her when she asked.