Moving Day

When I pull out the battered old steamer trunk from its hallowed space at the back of my bedroom closet, wheeling it into the main living area of our small apartment, everything in my life takes notice.

It’s a certain alert wariness, an awareness that things are about to change again, and that maybe not everything that’s around right now will be around tomorrow.

As I flop the trunk over on its side with a low, hollow thump, I imagine a ripple of motion passing through the entire apartment. Like everything gave a little jump. When I pop the latches and fling open the lid, revealing a bare interior lined in worn felt, everything seems to lean in. I stand up, plant my hands on my hips, and take a long look around.

The anticipation in the air is almost palpable.

This is a regular event. I’m a restless soul, never content to dwell in one place for too long. I’m also a bit of a… collector, I guess you could say. I don’t buy everything I see, throwing money around indiscriminately. Each thing I obtain has a specific memory or feeling associated with it. Each is meant to remind me of something I found meaningful in my life, be it a simple happy occurrence or a monumental change.

My home is cluttered with the tangible reminders of what I live for.

But I have a rule: for each time I move on, for each time I decide I need to find a new place to make a new start, I only bring what I can fit in the trunk.

Naturally, I don’t bother with practical things, like clothes and sundries and flatware. I can find new ones, to fit my new life. No, I have to decide which memories, which thoughts and feelings, I want to bring along, and which ones I’ll leave behind.

I glance around the room, and I can practically see various items trying to stand out, raising themselves up higher, inching forward. There’s the old brass table lamp with the green glass shade, which I picked up at a thrift store right after I moved into this apartment. It was the first item in my new collection, and I got it because it jumped out at me. Literally: the stupid thing fell off a shelf, and I barely caught it before it shattered on the floor.

There’s the plush velour pillow, deep violet in color, that I swiped from a coffeehouse because I had the most restful nap I can remember on it. The coffee was terrible, but the pillow is amazing.

There’s the row of matryoshka dolls that caught my fancy because each is painted with a person representing a different generation of a family, from Grandma to Baby… and they’re all glued to their phones. They look like they’re ignoring each other, but they still fit together perfectly. It’s a stunning representation of the dichotomy of modern society.

There are so many choices. I have to think about it some more. As if sensing my thoughts, everything seems to slump in dejection, as if annoyed at not making the cut in the first round. Smiling at that, I saunter out of the living room, and into the bedroom.

The selection here is a little sparser, thank goodness. I don’t spend as much time here as I do in other parts of the apartment, and when I do, I’m in a state where I don’t pay as much attention to what’s around me. Naturally.

Still, there are a few standouts. A framed picture hangs on the wall, depicting an artist painting a simple landscape. Inside the picture is another picture of the artist painting the landscape. And so on, smaller and smaller. Picked that up because it made me think about what the artist in the smallest picture would do if he had to go to the bathroom. Could he just step away? Or would he have to paint himself out of each picture? Or would each of them have to add a restroom to their painting? I chuckle at the thought of the tiny artist doing the jig while the largest artist paints a toilet.

Then there’s the vanity mirror I rescued from a junkyard, propped awkwardly atop a chest of drawers that’s way too small for it. I went to the junkyard looking for a drainage hose for my dish washer, but I lost myself for a good half hour staring into this mirror. It has a defect, maybe a wrinkle in the foil backing, maybe something else, that seems to… move. If you stare at it, then look away, it’s somewhere else when you look back. Spooky. It really mystified me, so I had to have it.

As interesting and alluring as these things are, I know I can’t take both. Not to mention all the other things in here, like the super soft comforter or the clothes chest with the secret compartment. Again, unable to decide, I move on, without making any decisions.

That’s my life in a nutshell.

Next is the kitchen. I practically dance into the room, my favorite part of my home. It’s not just that I love food, or that I’m a particularly good cook. It just seems that you can put the most amazing things into a kitchen. And I’m not talking about a microwave or a fridge or an air fryer. I’m talking about the butcher’s block I took home from a restaurant after I went into their kitchen to complain about the quality of my steak. A loud, spirited argument ensued, with the chef ending up waving a knife at me until I left. To spite him, I turned back just long enough to snatch the scarred, scuffed block, with its collection of old, well-used knives. Now it sits on my counter, a trophy from a contest I’m not sure whether I won or lost.

Near it stands a French press coffee maker. Nothing particularly special about it. Except that when I ordered it, it took forever to get here. Then it didn’t make a satisfactory cup of coffee. So I sent it back. Ten times. The company sent me a replacement each time. I admire their dedication to their customers. Still doesn’t make a good cup of coffee, but I keep it as a reminder that there is good customer service out there, somewhere.

Then there’s the spoon rest. I have to admit, that one’s probably not going to make the list. It’s a beautiful piece, glazed pottery with a flowery design. Sturdy and shiny, nice to look at, with a good heft and feel when you pick it up. Not sure why you would, but there’s that. The problem is that the darn thing keeps dropping my spoons. Most of the time, when I put a spoon in it, no matter how clean or dirty, the minute I turn my back, there’s a clatter and the spoon has rolled onto the counter, or all the way to the floor, leaving a trail of whatever sauce or broth I’ve been stirring with it. Sometimes I’d swear I can hear the spoon rest give a sinister laugh. So, yeah, I’m not a fan of that one. I’ve only kept it this long to prevent its evil spreading beyond my kitchen. If I let it loose, who knows how much suffering it might cause.

I heave a great sigh. There’s so much stuff. So much I want to take. So much I crave and covet. I just can’t make up my mind.

I walk back into the living room, back to the trunk.

I’m starting over. I can only take what I can fit in the trunk. What memories do I want to bring with me? What thoughts and feelings do I want to preserve? What do I want to leave behind, if I’m going to begin again?

I guess I’ll just do what I’ve done every time before.

I pull out an address sticker, already scrawled with the destination I’ve chosen for my next home, and slap it on the face of the trunk. I pull out my phone, arrange for pickup and delivery.

Then, with another sigh, I climb into the trunk and pull it closed. The latches lock with a series of clicks.

I’ll just take what I need with me, and worry about everything else when I get where I’m going.