But the items loomed over me now. They were a reminder that, one day, all of my things would be just that: things. They wouldn’t be handed down to a child or displayed in a museum. The items stuffed with my joy and the happiest times of my life would be things that no one wanted, in a bureau with excess sawdust. I was a reflection of the things I carried. So what did that mean if the things I collected were destined to be tossed away? Was I just a collection of the things no one wanted?
