Today my mother and sister came over to help me pack. Before they left, we filled thirty boxes, bringing my packed total to forty-one. I'm embarrassed to admit that twenty-three of those forty-one boxes contain books ... and that doesn't include the crate of books they took home or the three crates that are waiting to go to the used bookstore. ("Do you not have a library card?" my mother asked as she surveyed my collection.)
Anyway, it was good to have them here to help. I've been doing bits and pieces all week long, but it's hard to get much done on my own. G will help here and there, but then she loses interest and wanders off to play or watch TV. In contrast, the three of us managed to pack all five bookcases, the shelf of books in my walk-in closet, the DVDs, the games, P's action figures, and most of the pictures and knickknacks. The heap of boxes in my dining room looks like the Great Wall of China, and yet it feels as if we hardly made a dent.
I have too much stuff.
Also, moving without P is no fun. We moved together four times, and although it was always hard work, we had the excitement of a new place to look forward to, and we could make decisions about what to keep and what to get rid of together. Now it's all on me, and there's nothing at the other end but an escape from this house of tragedy. I don't like it. I don't want to have to make decisions about what to do with P's things. They're not mine, they're his. How can I say what's important enough to keep and what ought to be given away? I know P trusted me to do it, but I don't trust myself. I can't wait for all this to be over.