garage sales

I have pared my life to
about 15 boxes, max, and
a subcompact
hatchback’s worth of overflow, down,
appreciably,
from seven years ago and the holdings
of a four-bedroom home in the suburbs. I
vacillate between elation and its opposite. I
feel freed, yet still somehow tethered to that which I’ve
renounced, and a bit guilty about renouncing
it (that, them), such as
the brown and yellow scarf
knitted by a friend of a friend's friend, 13 years
ago.
It always is this way, in life, I suppose, except
that we usually don’t have
a choice,
which is way garage sales can
be so
liberating.
Time constantly holds garage sales
of (with?) our lives
without asking whether we want
to sell and how much
we’re willing to take for what
we're losing.
I like my way better. I like to be
the one deciding
whether to keep the rusty, dented Cleveland Browns
wastebasket, which
I did,
so far, at least,
by the way.