I'm moving this Friday to a bigger apartment. Packing my existence
into cardboard boxes, taping them shut with the loud shrieking
straaaap that tape makes, and finding a word to scrawl on the side.
It's somewhat disheartening. Every piece of this or scrap of that,
from the closets to the drawers to under the sink, each one has
sometimes years of memories in the moment it takes to blow off the
dust.

I thought I would be excited to move, and I am at some level, but
these past three days have brought a sadness, heavy and thick with
humidity, the time between all those thens and now. Some of the boxes
I don't care to reopen. The toughest were the four filled with my
music. All the CDs I'd acquired and worshipped in those drunken
years. I remarked to my husband, intrigued by my sighs, that I could
label each of these with the drink of choice that accompanied they're
repetitive play.

Tonight included an unusual gravity drawing my thoughts to the what-if
I played some and drank some like all the times I've packed and moved
before. I didn't, but there was a bit too much comfort in the
remembering the possibility of those several hours of escape.

drSue [November 23, 2004 1:06 a.m.]