Right now Husband is moving between the basement and the garage as he hauls up boxes. He is cursing occasionally and wearing an old page-boy hat and a scarf wrapped around his mouth as he battles the likely mold, dust, and giant earwigs.
I only go in our basement (this house is a hundred years old with a leaky foundation and crooked floors) in extreme cases, like when our guinea pigs run out of hay, so I am up here at my desk trying not to laugh at his costume because I don't want to get dirty and put up with the five-foot-tall ceiling.
He cough-shouts at me from the kitchen: whoa... that was intense. And then, devastated, we lost some of the big boxes. Ten large and ten medium. A sad, sad day, he says. He is mostly serious. After multiple moves, the boxes become something like real possessions. He hits the showers.
***
Earlier today I assembled four boxes, packed one with books (fifteen small boxes later, the books are finished), and took all the art off the wall in our living and dining rooms, and a little off the wall in the spare room (the room where we keep everything that doesn't go in the other rooms--spare books, instruments, the filing cabinet, Husband's soccer gear, college posters). In some places there is a light shadow, the ghost impression of a few of our frames. I pulled twenty-four nails or tacks from the walls. My house looks naked. In terms of packing, house-nudity must be a victory.
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