I wonder how I'll be when I'm old and gray. Will I hold on fiercely to that piece of lace, to the bundle of handwritten letters, to the images of the young, idealistic and sprightly self I used to be? What will happen to these things I've made sacred, by virtue of the "story" behind them, when I move on from this life? And even though I know I shouldn't care what happens to my things when I'm already six feet under, I do. Ugh. I am the ultimate pack rat.
The thought that the things that held so much meaning to me would be nothing but a hefty collection of odds and ends to someone else pierces me. It saddens me to think that the only things I have to remind me of those special ephemeral moments would be thrown away with yesterday's trash. Maybe all we really have is our own lives (and God).
Cleaning has a way of doing this to me. This supposedly cathartic process of removing the useless, the unwanted, the cluttered part of my life dredges up melancholic thoughts. I suspect that failing my 12 Step Program when I've finally reached the penultimate stage has also weighed in heavily on my current state of moroseness. But that, of course, is another story waiting for a particularly cold and rainy day when I have nothing better to do and have too much to think about.