Post by tigerlily on Sept 6, 2008 17:54:19 GMT
She had always hated packing. Far too much like housework for her liking, when all was said and done.
Packing also reminded her too much of the ending of things, rather than drawing her mind and imagination off to new beginnings. Fear of the new, and a tendency to cling to the old, were her constant companions in life.
And yet, despite this fear of the new, this dislike of change, she constantly sought out new challenges and adventures. In some way, it seemed as though she needed these challenges to bring her to the realisation that she was alive and able to feel, to live.
The last time she’d packed, it was at the end of a relationship. In truth, the last time she went to the old house to collect the last of her belongings, he had already loaded everything into plastic bags ready for her to collect. Saved her the effort, but also felt painfully as though somehow he couldn’t wait to get rid of the last remnants of their life together.
This time, she had as much time as she needed. Within reason. Five weeks till she finished work, with no clear date for the move overseas. The living room was already beginning to fill up with boxes, the cats were starting to panic and the disorder was starting to get on her nerves.
There had been many times since the death of her mother when she had wished keenly that she had not died, that she was still there to talk things through with. So many things had changed over the last seven years, mainly for the better. What would her mother have made of those changes, she wondered idly to herself? What would she have to say about the planned move abroad, about leaving the career her daughter had fought to carve out for herself?
Giving herself a mental shake, she broke free of her reverie and moved into the bedroom to begin emptying the wardrobe. All those clothes she never wore, but couldn’t bear to part with. Ridiculous, really...some of them might one day fit her again, some of them she wouldn’t ever wear even if they did, but still she clung to them.
Opening the suitcase, she worked her way down through the layers on the top shelf of the wardrobe. Wool, cotton, linen, slippery satin, rough denim, all lifted and folded and placed into the case. Reaching in to the back of the shelf, her fingers touched paper. Her heart lurched painfully in her chest as she remembered placing her treasures there, safely away from the damp and the ravages of cats and visiting children.
She could no more resist stopping to read through those old letters and cards than she could stop breathing. She read with tears in her eyes and an ache in her heart, hearing her mother’s voice so clearly in her mind that it physically hurt.
Just when she felt she could bear no more, the voice in her head spoke once again:
“For goodness’ sakes, our Shelley, will you stop standing there snivelling and get a ruddy move on?”
Laughing, she shook her head, knowing full well that had her mother still been here those were more or less the exact words she would have spoken. So many times, she had needed to feel her mother was still watching over her, and every time in some subtle way she had made her presence felt.
With a smile on her lips, she gently placed the old correspondence on top of the clothes in the suitcase, before zipping it closed and carrying it out of the bedroom.
Packing also reminded her too much of the ending of things, rather than drawing her mind and imagination off to new beginnings. Fear of the new, and a tendency to cling to the old, were her constant companions in life.
And yet, despite this fear of the new, this dislike of change, she constantly sought out new challenges and adventures. In some way, it seemed as though she needed these challenges to bring her to the realisation that she was alive and able to feel, to live.
The last time she’d packed, it was at the end of a relationship. In truth, the last time she went to the old house to collect the last of her belongings, he had already loaded everything into plastic bags ready for her to collect. Saved her the effort, but also felt painfully as though somehow he couldn’t wait to get rid of the last remnants of their life together.
This time, she had as much time as she needed. Within reason. Five weeks till she finished work, with no clear date for the move overseas. The living room was already beginning to fill up with boxes, the cats were starting to panic and the disorder was starting to get on her nerves.
There had been many times since the death of her mother when she had wished keenly that she had not died, that she was still there to talk things through with. So many things had changed over the last seven years, mainly for the better. What would her mother have made of those changes, she wondered idly to herself? What would she have to say about the planned move abroad, about leaving the career her daughter had fought to carve out for herself?
Giving herself a mental shake, she broke free of her reverie and moved into the bedroom to begin emptying the wardrobe. All those clothes she never wore, but couldn’t bear to part with. Ridiculous, really...some of them might one day fit her again, some of them she wouldn’t ever wear even if they did, but still she clung to them.
Opening the suitcase, she worked her way down through the layers on the top shelf of the wardrobe. Wool, cotton, linen, slippery satin, rough denim, all lifted and folded and placed into the case. Reaching in to the back of the shelf, her fingers touched paper. Her heart lurched painfully in her chest as she remembered placing her treasures there, safely away from the damp and the ravages of cats and visiting children.
She could no more resist stopping to read through those old letters and cards than she could stop breathing. She read with tears in her eyes and an ache in her heart, hearing her mother’s voice so clearly in her mind that it physically hurt.
Just when she felt she could bear no more, the voice in her head spoke once again:
“For goodness’ sakes, our Shelley, will you stop standing there snivelling and get a ruddy move on?”
Laughing, she shook her head, knowing full well that had her mother still been here those were more or less the exact words she would have spoken. So many times, she had needed to feel her mother was still watching over her, and every time in some subtle way she had made her presence felt.
With a smile on her lips, she gently placed the old correspondence on top of the clothes in the suitcase, before zipping it closed and carrying it out of the bedroom.