A few years ago when I was feeling sentimental I wrote this:
Ode to the Attic Museum
I love "attic" museums.
Small places where they exhibit
the bits of peoples' lives.
Where the obscure becomes important.
Some would say
"all they have is trash."
Attics are where you find the bits of memories.
Where you stumble across the forgotten
Kept because it was precious.
I am a Southerner
we have an affinity for holding on -
We want the bits of history
To tell us who our people were.
So we will know who we are.
We keep stuff - for generations.
A photograph, a piece of lace, a spoon,
Books, oh, my yes, books
Letters, pens, linens, pots and pans.
And on, and on, and on.
We guard them.
They are us.
Our roots, our connections.
Today, I still admit my sentimental attachment to my "things". I have kept many bits of memories of my life—and of several other people's lives—which means I have created an "attic museum" of my own crammed into a Chevy Chase split-level house.
However, as life does, it has slipped in a new reality and new questions.
As a fairly recent widow, today I look around my home at the things I so lovingly collected and I feel overwhelmed by the question: "What am I going to do with this stuff?" Fortunately, I don't plan to move anytime soon. But, eventually I will have to come up with an answer to the question.
How about you? Are you living in the middle of Fibber McGee's closet?
Is a trash bin the only answer?