As I neurotically approach the beginning of the end of my academic saga (grad school at BU), I've found myself compulsively wondering how millions upon millions of people have moved out of their parents' houses, relocating to a new home, with new things, and leaving their childhood rooms, essentially their lives, behind. I've asked about 5 people now what they did with "all their stuff" when they left, and was appalled to find that the majority "didn't remember". Maybe I'm just developmentally living in Neverland or something, but as I stare at the drawer of junk (one of MANY) sitting on the floor, awaiting perusal and inevitable downsizing, I can't help but panic when I think about what is to become of all the things that I have meticulously collected and accumulated over my most significant years.


I've gathered no less than 5 bags of garbage, in addition to 4 bags of "give-away" (denim purses, too tight t-shirts, expired makeup, you know, things that I realized I had no use for, despite desperately having held on to them for way too many years) and there is still no end in sight. What about the band photo albums, books, cds, picture frames, favorite childhood stuffed animals (i mean FAVORITE), and my 8th grade journal. You tell me you can look at entries written from a time when you didn't know what unrequited love felt like, and throw them out? Yeah right. Or the letters upon letters from your grandma, who used to laugh and cook for you and teach you rhymes that you'd say to each other, but now calls you her niece. And the pictures of your parents when they were young. Where can it all go? What if it's too much to save?

Or maybe it's just me, wanting to hold onto something that's already gone. Maybe it's not even about the stuff after all.