Boxes

At some point, I am going to have to decide where it is I really live.

The truth is, I am homed, but I am homeless. I've left my Colorado house to my son, because I am spending nearly all my time in my mother's house in Wyoming.

He and his wife have been making repairs and doing some remodeling, so my entire Colorado life is in boxes, except for the few things in my bedroom.

That's the bedroom now designated as mine, but being used by another person at this point in time. So, when I visit in a couple of weeks, I'm not sure if I will be sleeping there, or in the guest room.

The guest room has a bed, and stacks of boxes--my clothes and shoes, papers, notebooks, artwork... I have no idea what is what, because I wasn't there when my things were packed up to move from my old bedroom so it could be worked on.

I'm not complaining. Over the last few visits I have left enough clothing in the new room to get me through a week so I don't have to pack a lot when I travel. I hate packing. I hate dragging a big suitcase through the airport. This works for me.

But, where do I live?

At Mom's I have moved into the room I slept in as a teen. It's not much different now--no posters, though.

Over time I have added clothes to the closet and a few personal touches. My television is here now, and I bought a stereo.

But I haven't "moved in". I haven't "moved out".

If I am honest, I don't envision myself living either here nor there. My future home exists in my imagination. I know what I want it to look like, I know what things I want inside.

I just don't have a clue where it is.

A meme I saw recently summed up the past few years of my life perfectly:

I have saved more good boxes over the last few years, thinking of the time when I will finally pack up and move into a place that is truly mine, all mine and no one else's but mine.

But I came to a realization: it's not happening anytime soon. It may never happen at all. I need to be here with my mother most of the time, with visits home intermittently. So the boxes needed to go.

The basement storeroom was loaded with them. Did I ever mention that I have become, in the midst of this pandemic, a mail-order queen? Paper products arrive in GREAT boxes. They are big and sturdy.

They are also a pain in the neck to break down for recycling.

But I did it. I got rid of boxes. Really good boxes. And I made a pact with myself that when I recieved an order of anything, I would break those boxes down immediately and get them to the recycle bin.

But--

Now I am facing cleaning out closets and drawers that hold my Dad's belongings, and guess what? I don't have any good boxes!

I am my own best frienemy, caught between, "Just get rid of it" and "Save it; you might need it someday".

So here's my new plan. I will save the best boxes, but I will break them down and store them flat. It will be worth the time it takes when the day comes--and it will!-- when I need a really good box.

Now...where's my mail order package? I need a box.