I’ve never really cared about stuff. I have a LOT of stuff. I have collected shit everywhere I go. I have rocks and shells and feathers. I have driftwood and pictures and old bottles I’ve found. I have pieced together old furniture that I l thought was interesting, some new thrown in. The majority of my stuff has a memory attached. I keep it more for the reminder than the object. I had to pack to leave my house, to evacuate. I had to pack, with the idea that I may come back to none of it, like so many east of me have now done.
You want to know what I took? My camera, laptop, drive with thousands of photos, some clothes for a couple days, my wedding rings, my dogs and my boys. That’s it. I forgot my passport, the deed to my house, my birth certificate. I really need to get a box together of important things…
We loaded up and left. I left it all. I kept thinking about my little house, my little piece of paradise.
I didn’t know if this chapter of my life was closing already. The chapter that I am currently working so hard on building. So soon? Not now! I came back to relief. It’s all still here. It’s all the same.
It’s me that is different.