Like Koi swimming in circles, we circled through our house, trying to decide what to take and what to give up as we downsized to a retirement community apartment.
In the first thirteen years of our marriage, Tom and I had seven corporate moves. Those were relatively easy. Movers packed and loaded up everything. Then movers unloaded and unpacked everything at the destination. While it was great to have everything unpacked, we were left with our belongings piled on every surface.
This time, we chose a moving company that specializes in moving older people to retirement communities. Not only do they pack and unpack and place your furniture, they put away all your kitchen items, hang your clothes, and make your beds.
Still, we circled. Trying to decide. Forgetting what we had chosen. Were we taking the blue sofa or the gray one? Which office chair had Tom chosen? What about his two-piece desk?
Molly, the moving company advisor, helped. She left us with rolls of wide blue painter's tape. We were to put a piece of tape on anything we wanted to take with us. Now we had a visual reminder of what needed to go or stay. Our two favorite chairs—blue tape. The gray sofa—blue tape. What about grandpa's smoking stand? Blue tape. What about the ugly bargain lamp? No tape for that thing.
One day Molly met us at our future apartment to check its size and layout. Then she returned to our house, measured the length of our closet rods, and said we would have room to take all the clothes from our closet. She opened kitchen cabinets and drawers to see how things were organized so they could be placed the same when they were unpacked.
Determined not to be the person who took clutter, I veered into a tchotchke obliteration zone. Molly pulled me back. She said I should take my small collection of water pitchers because they are pretty, and my small collections of vintage hats and vintage inkwells because they are fun. She said there would be room in front of our new living room windows for my plant stands and plants.
Moving day was like a scene from Jaws. No more tranquil koi pond. The moving truck opened its big doors and in went our future lives. And then everything was flung out and placed just where it had been in our house. The same—but different. And then they drove away. And here we were. Now what?
A few items had dents, but nothing was ruined. Tom's office was still arranged as it had been. I still had those things that made me feel as if I were in a familiar pond and was still myself.
We were at the end of our swim. We were home.
