Our age requires our downsizing. Right here before me sits a cream-colored Chinese cow, carved from marble, a homecoming present from a beloved colleague who often traveled to China. In just twenty years, who will care about it? Nobody. That cow will have to go--if not soon, eventually. I'm sounding morbid. Maybe. But I'm being real.
So yesterday, when I finally took some time to clean a bit down here in the basement, I ran across seven old cds full of pictures, disks I hadn't seen for a long time. I had no idea what they images held, so I put 'em in the computer.
Seven disks of pix of my family at a wedding, celebrating a marriage that lasted six months, at best. It was almost creepy to see the joy. Count 'em yourself--seven rolls of 35mm film--more than a hundred shots of sweet, smiling faces. Could well be that those seven disks are all that's left of that marriage.
I tossed them--all seven of them. Who wants 'em? Nobody. Who needs 'em? Nobody. They're right here beside me in the wastebasket as we speak.
Things like that little marble cow--it's going to be tough tossing things like that, really tough.
But these pix from a wedding better left forgotten?--should have been easy, right? I really had to toss 'em. Should have been no sweat. Nobody--I mean, nobody--wants those pictures anymore. Even the principals want them gone. Should have been a piece of cake.
Should have been.
But I've not forgotten that right here beside me, in the wastebasket, is a whole gallery of smiles that are gone, gone forever.
The pictures I can throw away, but something is there in the flotsam and jetsam that isn't so easy to toss.