Respectfully, Take Your Things and Leave
Packing up my past to make space for their future.
Dear reader,
There’s a time-honored breakup tradition of gathering up your ex-lover’s things in a box, a garbage bag, or a Tupperware (ideal for fine jewelry). The packing is essential; the delivery is where you get to freestyle. To schedule a time for them to stop by your place when you’re not home is avoidant, but a healthy boundary for a recently broken heart. To hand-deliver is courageous, but you risk an unexpected breakdown with unbecoming tears. Shipping is expensive, but saves you the trauma of interaction. Throwing all of their shit on the front lawn makes both of you look bad.
Though I moved out of my childhood home long ago, my parents have held onto a lot of my things. Forgotten clothes have stayed on their hangers. Knick-knacks, concert tickets, and algebra notebooks have filled bedside table drawers. Even a modestly-sized sprung marley dance floor remains in the basement, a remnant from a time when I was sure tap-dancing would be a huge part of my career in adulthood.
I’ve never concerned myself with these remnants of me which take up precious real estate in my parents’ house. I’ve never considered how I linger, a figure endowed within these objects, like an ex-boyfriend who remains not in the flesh but in the coffee mugs you got with him in the Catskills. Not until this weekend did I consider how the bits and pieces I left behind remind my parents of the children who’ve grown up and flown away, and how that nostalgia might be both uplifting and painful.
I visited their home this week. Though these days it feels like their home and not mine, I still feel at home the moment I walk in the door. I average about four visits per year since college. I count on familiar things like mom’s special salad dressing, the solace of playing at our baby grand piano, and the quiet mornings with a coffee, a newspaper, and my father’s company.
This trip home, though, I was met with something unfamiliar: boxes, garbage bags, Tupperware, and even heavy-duty storage crates filled with my possessions. They came with a request from Mom and Dad. “Can you sort through these things? Keep what you’d like, toss what you don’t.”
And as I sat on the garage floor sifting through sweaters, love letters, jeans, old magazines. . . I couldn’t help but wonder: Are my parents breaking up with me?
It’s not that I have been cast out. Quite the contrary: I’ve been welcomed home, as always, with arms outstretched for an embrace. I’ve been well-fed. I’ve been applauded for my impromptu performances of tunes like “Mary Did You Know?” even though we’ve not yet passed Halloween.
I don’t feel abandoned or unwanted. I just feel like I’m that toxic ex who moved out long ago but kept a presence in the home for years after I’ve gone. I left my shit behind and never bothered to come back to pack it up. It’s only fair, now, that I sort through my past and make space for my parents’ future. They could use more room for their new clothes, new hobbies, new dog and all his accessories and accoutrements.
I sorted through years of mementos and souvenirs and found that I needed very little of it. I’ll gladly squeeze the most precious pieces into my suitcase, and discard the algebra and calculus I never need to see again. I don’t fear being forgotten in this home; in the dining room there’s a large portrait of me in my First Holy Communion garb to prevent that from happening. Just in case, though, I’ll keep a small memory box tucked away under my bed. It won’t take up too much space, just enough that when I’m home I feel I still belong.
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I love you!
XOXO, Matthew