So a week ago I was buying a house. In the next 24 hours the sellers defaulted on the contract; they did not offer anything in writing showing they would provide for or perform repairs the inspection turned up so we terminated.
But when I thought I was going to move, I marveled at the amount of catalogs and junk mail that gets stuffed in the mailbox, especially this time of year. So I told myself, just give forwarding information to magazines, organizations and people I want to have my new address (all my bills are paid online) and don’t leave a forwarding address. None of that stuff will follow you.
Then I began wondering: what kind of life am I living where people will know what kind of address at which I will ultimately find myself? Of course at that point I will be unreachable (despite what Mitch Albom’s new fiction novel purports in receiving communications), but like my parents and a few friends who have already moved into a new dimension I’d like for people to think better of where I wind up.
Nobody can send anything to me (except prayers), I can’t bring stuff, but I doubt I will miss any of what is down here. Which makes me wonder why it is so difficult to let go of some things?
I have a necktie my dad used to wear to the office when I worked with him. It has a knight in armor, lance drawn, on horseback. It’s a pretty garish tie, brown and orange as I remember, not silk even, but that tie is one of my cherished possessions. He would wear that tie on days I felt the smallest, most hopeless and wondered whether or not I could ever accomplish any of the things he was working hard at training me to do. When he wore the tie I knew he had figured out something to fix everything, and he did. Presumably when my time comes I will see my dad again, and my mom, but I still can’t bring myself to give her silver to my brother, who entertains far more than I and might make good use of it, nor can I get rid of that tie.
I have my dad’s shaver, a camera still in its box, and the barrel to my brother’s .22 rifle that Dad taught him how to shoot with. No idea what ever became of the stock.
Oh, I also have some photos and a scrap book with memories of the Nutcracker in New York which Dad took me to see every year from when I was around 8, sugar packets from a trip to Aspen, matchbooks, playbills and cocktail napkins. Somehow these tangible things make me feel closer to my memories of Dad, but more than that I guess both he and my mom still speak to me in my heart, if I make myself very still.
So families and very good friends, no matter where we go, somehow keep our addresses, and we theirs, and we don’t lose touch