My parents are divesting themselves of my past.
Each time they come to visit they bring with them another box of my stuff from their house. It could be old books, clothes; the last time it was a bunch of board games that had been moldering in their attic. What do I now own? A T-shirt I designed long ago for my fraternity (Sigma Phi Epsilon, Pennsylvania Iota chapter, my brothers), and an old version of the game of Life, which my mother tells me has been updated to insure that each player wins something. Maybe that's true and maybe it's not, but if it is, that would be too bad.
[...]
My parents are giving away stuff because they simply don't want it to take up space any more in their house. That's understandable. It's been there for 30 years, some of that junk. I'm giving things away because it feels, suddenly, quite healthy and liberating to not be so attached to the past any more.
I don't know what the future looks like, but it will certainly be less cluttered. I have a dream to travel fleet-footed, lighter, and somewhat unburdened.
When my parents moved from the house where all the kids grew up we all came in from wherever we had scattered to and picked over those old memories. We gathered what we could take back with us and let go of the rest. It was indeed a poignant, yet somehow liberating experience. (I still have my old "Pledge Plaque" from 1975, though. It was important.)
The Roads to Providence by Lars Trodson: Time passing by, literally
