Chapter Next

A friend told me recently that he's rarely met a problem he can't solve by throwing money at it.  Or lots of butter. I'd add chocolate. Nothing to lose, anyway, at least with the butter or the chocolate. I've tossed a bunch of it around with my upcoming move, substituting painkillers for money maybe a bit more than I should. 

Twenty-five years ago, almost to the day, I moved to suburbia. With a husband, a couple of kids, and one more kid and a handful of dogs in my future, it seemed the right thing to do. Especially back then, when my inner hypocrite overtook my outwardly bleeding heart and I wouldn't even consider sending my children to a public school in Chicago. It was all about class size, we told ourselves. Sure it was. 

I find myself on a nostalgia tour these days. I drove by the high school the other day, remembered driving by there long ago, unable to imagine my own children that old. I drive by the restaurants, some still there, some long gone but with almost identical replacements, remembering the odd conversation. Even the not so odd conversation. Every place sets off a tiny flicker of recognition -- a celebration, friends who have slipped away, the occasional bad date, the rare good date. 

I had thought this move would be easier, having already gone through the purge of the home we all grew up in, my little family and I. I still had one daughter in tow for this interim move, and though the other two had launched, they seemed still to be finding their way. I clung to the illusion of being on call. This time, it's just me. And the dog, of course. 

Everybody I talk to passes on the current wisdom of tossing, keeping only that which brings you joy. Okay, if I took that literally, I'd just keep the money and the butter and the chocolate and the painkillers. And the dog, of course. 

What of the magnificent dresses I wore on magnificent occasions, the dresses crumpled and faded, the occasions reduced to bound albums I have not opened in years. What of my daughters' prom dresses; what of the miniature tuxedo vest my son wore at his bar mitzvah party? They are just things, really, and things cannot possibly bring joy. Can they? 

I fear there is no room for the stuff in my new apartment downtown, but I am terrified of letting it all go. Without the tangibles, what's left? Except the money and the butter and the chocolate and the painkillers, and all the unknowables of chapter next.