Moving Day

Some relationships come to a close with possessions being thrown out the window or the door. Some end with simply leaving what you had and starting again, including physical possessions. The pots and pans, the beloved red spatula, the stockpot used more by the party whose possession it was not.

These things are just that. Things. Plastic, mostly. Replaceable, yet functional. Possessions worth getting used to and now gone. The house feels less compound energy. The house feels empty of others. It is now just me. With possessions infused by others, but not theirs. Mine.

It’s the last satisfaction, perhaps, of taking back a possession deemed to be yours. The final takeback of any such emotion, or personal energy that might belong to you, not them. Something that, by possession, is yours, and so you must take it back. Except for the shitty things. The things no one really wants but just hides in the back cupboard. Instead of throwing it out, it will sit there longer – years probably – before it is considered again.

That shit should go too.