u-stor-it

The storage room was a five-by-five-by-eight space. A closet, is all. The woman at the counter, the one who gave the “tour,” was Marita. She espoused, as much as anyone can espouse about such mundane things, the oversized cabinet’s attractions, it's location, mostly – inside; away from the outer walls; accessible by the door at the end of the hallway. After the short look-see, she gave him a gift for taking the tour – a flashlight-tool combo-deal. He wanted to tell her that he was trying to lighten his load, not add to it, but she seemed so pleased to be giving it that he accepted with a smile. He didn’t want to hurt her feelings. “Call me if you have any questions,” Marita said. He did have a question, but he wasn’t sure she could answer it. Two actually. One: Had it all come down to this? Trying to fit 58 years of a life’s accoutrements into five by five by eight? And: As he would drive off, into the distance, into his nearest future, how should he deal with the sadness of what he was leaving behind, no matter that he planned someday reclaim everything, God willing – the pictures, the trinkets, the mementos. Excess baggage, now, on the proposed journey. He climbed back into his car, sat for a moment, then decided that he wouldn’t try to answer those questions, either. At least not today.