Havah spends part of every day (usually while I'm making supper) in this walker. She seems to like the view from there. Every time she uses it, I think of my neighbor, the one whose children helped themselves to toys and tools from our backyard, whose dog had neither collar nor license, who woke us at 2 a.m. with arguing and drama, whose trash littered the sidewalk. This neighbor was the one other neighbors complained about, and when she and her brood moved, the neighborhood seemed calmer and more dignified.
When she moved, however, she left a lot of stuff behind--dressers, beds, clothes, toys, entertainment center, yes, even a baby walker. The pile in the backyard grew as the landlord cleaned out the house, ebbed as folks helped themselves, and ultimately disappeared when the trash truck with the claw hauled it all away to the incinerator. It seems to happen frequently around here, this leaving behind of the accoutrements of home life. People move for various reasons--rent's too high, landlord's a jerk, can't make the payment on the utility bill, boyfriend got pushy. Maybe they have to move in with family, or can't fit stuff into their car, or maybe they have to live out of their car, or maybe the particleboard furniture wouldn't survive a move. Piles by the sidewalk are a common sight.
My middle class sensibilities cry out in protest against the waste. Plan ahead! Rent a storage unit--you'll need to buy all this stuff again anyway! At least donate it to Goodwill. But as I sit here, surrounded by shelves full of books I probably won't read again, momentos of places and people of the past, toys gathering dust, I am humbled by my nameless neighbor. Stuff can stabilize our lives into stagnation, and there is a certain freedom, however wasteful it may seem to those with the goods, in moving on and cutting loose. After all, it's just stuff, and ultimately, you can't take it with you.
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