Trying to let go
On Breaking: The thing that broke me this week
I was in the basement, in the part that I call the scary side, the part where we store all the things we no longer use, but can’t bear to part with for sentimental reasons or because we trick ourselves into believing we may one day need them again. Everything is stacked neatly in plastic storage bins, some unlabeled, some mislabeled, and some labeled in detail. One says kitchen glass, but is full of things to make ceramics. Another says sentimental and it’s full of faded concert tickets, VIP passes, press passes to red carpet events from when I was a publicist in another life. There are stacks of old photo albums of ex-boyfriends, old birthday cards, a cream-colored dress shirt my late grandfather used to wear to church. The bin I was looking for wasn’t labeled, but I knew the shape of it, the color. I had to climb on top of another bin to reach it. I ducked under the blaring fluorescent lights and took the top off.