I am cleaning out my garage and naturally I wait until the hottest day of the year. First to be tossed out are all those thick booklets from Prudential explaining my investments, none of which I understand. I next eliminate my dried clay sculptures, damaged by leaking water. Hundreds of clippings centering on health issues go next. I am a recovering hypochondriac.
Some old pay stubs from before my retirement, along with letters detailing all the forms I had to supply and fill out in order to leave the Post Office are history.Old magazines featuring stars from the eighties and nineties, whose careers have nosedived are gone. There are two boxes of letters from people I used to know when letters were still being written. Those I keep for when I get really old and moist-eyed, pondering the meaning of my life.
Lots of early stuff I wrote, which I thought was really edgy, but upon rereading appears pretty lame. I'll keep them to remind me how far I've come. There are boxes I haven't opened in years. Nothing in them can be of much importance to my life now. Always, in the back of my mind, is the thought that after I croak, will there be anything left behind that might embarrass my nieces and nephew, who I surmise, still look up to me. I discovered twelve pairs of old sneakers that I could have donated somewhere. Now I feel guilty.
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