I procrastinate, thinking it will be emotionally difficult, and because it is ugly dirty work. I set out three boxes, garage sale, keep, Morgan. I have grown tired of the clutter, of the rows of books, of the tools no one will ever use, of the wooden things bought for never completed projects, of the objects for projects started but not thought out, failed projects that crashed off the wood siding, that always I cleaned up. A new pile starts, garbage, recycled metal, things that those who come in to replace the fleeing souls might need.
I realize that I feel no attachments to these accouterments of another life, to these leaves of another season, to these things coated in dust, to these rags. Simplicity feels like a royal robe. And as the piles grow in size I realize with a small feeling of joy that the keep pile is tiny and even that has many items that I feel no attachment to, instead I feel a pang that I might need it, though in many cases I have never needed any of it.
When the turkey vulture soared from this still living tree, it squawked some message about this place being our little home, and yet it never was. It has always been my labor and my love that keep this place afloat. I see that now. My labor, and for many years, my money. And yet its ghost still lingers here. It feels so cold, my breath exhales in a cloud of icy fog, I shiver.
I have yet to decide which road to take next, I just know that what must be done, must be done. I cannot escape it. The steps I take now are leading me into a cave. I close my eyes, and reach out with my fingers.
It must be like learning to read braille.
I feel its texture, and its damp cool breath, I know that there will be spiders but I am not afraid.