Paper Trail [antikvár]

PACKING UP What do we take? What do we leave? What do we stack in the front yard and invite strangers to disparage? We never meant to hoard possessions, never intended to sully our nest with unnecessary stuff, but somehow over the years it silently stockpiled, filling comers, drawers, attics, garages. Impulse items. Terrible gifts kept for sentimental reasons. Outgrown clothes, which we expect to fit into again after the diet. National Geographies from which we may someday cull the perfect isle to visit, Consumer Reports issues that we'll surely need the next time we have to replace our toaster or decide to get serious about choosing the most economical brand of dishwasher soap. Letters from those we've loved. Stationery and matchbooks from disparate motels: the Wrangler (Mobridge, South Dakota), the Top of the World (Barrow, Alaska), the Sequoia (Frederic-ton, New Brunswick), the Ramada Inn of Montvale, New Jersey. Dinner plates with a chip along the circumference. Good boots our children have outgrown. Pages torn from newspapers because one of the articles (which one?) seemed particularly cogent and worth remembering. Books we promise ourselves we'll read. Wedding presents still in their boxes. { 1