On How I Nearly Was A Boy; Or, Surviving Nostalgia

Photo by Carol Jeng on Unsplash

My mother has been needling me for years to come and clean my stuff out of her barn. Instead, I’ve done the opposite: with every move into a new apartment or house, and then when I sold my house, I brought more boxes and shoved them into the dusty corners of the loft. I didn’t dare face the sentimental — nay, monumental — task of sifting through memories from childhood and high school and a failed marriage and friends who died too young.

I finally couldn’t run anymore when I drove up to my hometown in Kenai, Alaska this summer from the Austin, Texas home that Boyfriend and I share. Mom pounced: “You’re driving up? Great, that means you can take all this stuff back down with you.” I couldn’t argue. It was come-to-Jesus time.

Parts of the past week have been true to my worst fears. At first I put up a wall against the discomfort and plowed through box after tupperware tub after wooden chest, throwing items into the trash bag and the give-away box with barely a glance. Dust and mouse droppings and old cat piss clogged my throat and I coughed constantly, the piles of boxes choking me into a claustrophobic mess. This is stupid, I thought. Why did I keep this shit? I was ready to haul it all outside and burn it.

Mom sat alongside me, lost in her own reveries. She pulled out a box of my baby stuff: clothes, shoes…