Bags

"When you're here, you're family."

-- Official Slogan of The Olive Garden Family Restaurant

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What is soon to be the sad sum of my possessions lies packed and stacked in a corner of the basement, a neat mess of suitcases, crates and packs. Everything is black, blue and red right now: shades of hurt. Somehow, though, this final (?) departure from home doesn't hurt so much as it just doesn't seem to fit. In the same way, shoes that are too small hurt; if they're too large they just feel awkward. Perhaps it's a cliche, to wonder whether one can fill shoes that seem too big. I guess the idea of watching one's packed bags sit there ought to become vapid with time.

Maybe so. I just hope that what seems to come out trite, in fact, will come out right. There's something good in trying to feel the brunt of a thing, no matter how many times you go through it. Making it new, staying in the moment, and all that. It's sort of like balking at a blinking yellow even if no one else is on the road.

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We had a jovial final family meal at the Olive Garden tonight, one last stomach-stuffing as a clan. Four Styrofoam boxes sit lamely in the fridge, distant cousins of my basement bags. They are things you put other things in to protect them until "later," when you remember what you've forgotten. It's amazing how much has been created solely for that purpose; personally, I sometimes feel like my life is a series of forgettings and remembrances, and my great task is to orchestrate that as best I can, like a skier hopping moguls on a path.

One final thought: my books. Space is limited in my pile, and my regiment of books must send a single squadron to stave me over for a year. It was as if I were saying to every book, Can we still be friends? I mean, we see each other every once in a while, but we both know I haven't exactly paid much attention to you lately. Plus, I just don't see where this relationship is going...you interested me once...what happened to those days?

I can't explain why I like owning a big pile of books I haven't read.