  But consider what value, what meaning is enclosed even in the smallest of our daily habits, in the hundred possessions which even the poorest beggar owns: a handkerchief, an old letter, the photo of a cherished person. These things are part of us, almost like limbs of our body; nor is it conceivable that we can be deprived of them in our world, for we immediately find others to substitute the old ones, other objects which are ours in their personification and evocation of our memories. -Primo Levi, If This is a Man I'm almost done packing. The dresser, desk, vanity, and bookshelves are empty. The framed portraits of women from National Geographic , the windchimes, the decorative plates are all wrapped in newspaper. Even the unimportant things--pencils, nail clippers, old shoes--are in boxes.
It's so strange to see the windows without curtains, the white walls. Maybe that's why I haven't packed anything this afternoon. It's silly, really. I'm almost done packing. All that's left is a few books, some appliances, and jewelry. Four, maybe five boxes, at the most.
An hour's work. But I haven't packed a thing. It doesn't seem possible that I'm moving to the Mississippi Delta. I've never been that far south; I can't picture the region. Of course, I know the South through movie cliches--sweet tea, the Baptist Church, cotton fields, scowling white men. But I know movies don't show the full scope of the region.
I can't picture Mississippi, so I can't picture my things there. Packing is part of the journey. These objects evoke memories--help me remember where I've gone, how I was led to Mississippi. I've been sifting through old letters, dried flowers, poetry, photographs. Last night, I found the boxed flowers--dried flowers I keep in little necklace boxes. I have Queen Anne's lace I picked in the woods on the morning I left for college.
In another box, I have a rose from a summer--and a man--I'd like to forget. I thought about throwing that flower away, but it's an important memory. I also spent time looking through photographs from prom. I was a beautiful girl then, but I hated myself. It's a lesson, I guess, to remember how near-sighted I can be. The books.
I love going through books, because I stuff mementos in them and forget they're there. In Jeanette Winterson's The Powerbook , I found a card Jennifer gave to me before I went to England. In it, she said she wasn't worried about me. She knew I'd have a "wonderful adventure. " In that book, I also found an advertisement for strip clubs in Paris. Come again.
(I love that the poster is from France, but it's written in English. ) I thought about throwing that away, but decided against it. Who knows when I'll come across it next? Will I remember the story behind it then? Or will I just shake my head and think, God I'm so weird ? Almost everything I own has a story.
Books, receipts, blankets, stockings--you name it. I especially love my furniture. I have a bedroom set, which includes a bed, dresser, and vanity, from the 1930's. An old woman owned the set until she moved into a nursing home. There were no scratches on it when my mom bought it. It's made with a beautiful honey-colored wood.
My kitchen table and chairs comes from my Great-grandma Irene, who passed away in November 2002. Her house was the center of family gatherings for holidays, weddings, and get-togethers. And that kitchen table groaned under the weight of pies, turkeys, cakes, and casseroles for thirty years. Now, I own the table. It's not the prettiest table, but it's sturdy. I look forward to having it for years.
Right now, I'm in the process of trying to convince my dad to give me the china from his marriage to my mom. He never uses it, and I have so few things from their marriage. (Outside some wedding pictures, a spice rack and, well, me, it's like it never happened. ) It's important to me, but I don't think he'll let me have it now. The china has a delicate pattern of perriwinkle, lavendar, and white flowers on the edge. It's called "Beloved.
" Last night, as we watched for tornados, my brother and I were talking about packing. He said, "It's interesting that your whole life, all your things, are reduced to a few boxes. It's like, How many boxes is your life worth ? " 
