I’ve spent the past week attempting to sell everything I own. It’s a weird experience, watching all of the things that have surrounded me 24/7 during quarantine quietly fade before me. A couple days ago we lost a couch and a coffee table. Today we lost some side tables. Soon we’ll hopefully secure a little pocket change for my desk, the blender. Eventually, the bed will go too.
I’ve only officially lived in this apartment for 15 months, but it’s the longest I’ve been in a place since childhood. In the past five years I’ve lived in 8 different bedrooms (plus a handful more for 2 week or less stints) in four different cities. The longest I’d been anywhere else was an apartment in Montreal for 10 months, but the experience of living here has been intensified by quarantine. This is the closest I’ve felt to settled since I was 17.
I grow too attached to things. I recently had to talk myself into throwing out a few Italian sugar packets I had procured on a trip to Italy five years ago. I do my best to talk myself out of hoarding hoarding, but I find ways around it, convincing myself that there’s nothing bad about holding onto the small things. I’ve held onto a specific hotel key card for the past 7 years. It’s almost the third anniversary of my procuring a certain portable phone charger that I’ve never used for its actual function. I’ve held onto my singing High School Musical greeting card for 13 years, even if it hasn’t been able to properly sing for at least the past 8.
I know holding onto little mementos isn’t the worst thing in the world, but every time another move rolls around I feel guilty about my collection of tiny things. Yet, once all the big things that mark my time in a space are long gone (a fold-out desk, a beautiful wood dresser), I’m glad I have a little shoebox with all my memories stuffed inside.