You can't see me because I am behind a stack of boxes

Boxes of dishes
boxes of towels
boxes of clothes
boxes of blankets & sheets
boxes of indeterminate things that might go to something we're not sure
boxes of video games
of paper
of photos
of gadgets
of cds
of books books books

Tuesday early I woke up and was gripped (no other word) with the realization that it's mid-December. (It felt it like two giant hands around my chest, squeezing.) And so I began to pack. To clean and sort and throw out and donate and pack. To wonder where many things came from, what they are, to have conversations with myself about necessities and simplifying and America. (Whenever I look at STUFF I think of America, some cluttered but shiny ideal.)

On Saturday some strangers are coming to look. On Sunday we'll have out-of-town guests. (And then Monday is my birthday.)

I feel a little as though I am browsing the pages of a catalog that is trying to sell me my own life.