Brown and orange Home Depot boxes are strewn about our living room, and we keep misplacing the Sharpie and packaging tape: our trusty weapons in this battle to fit our lives into cardboard.
Where in the world will I find the right paint color to cover these holes in my avocado walls (and ceilings)?
What took months to decide where to hang, find nails, and adorn the walls, took minutes to remove. What was my home just moments ago, quickly returned to a house. It proved how fast walls lose their meaning without art and photos.
I feel like I did this not long ago, when my four suitcases joined me on this side of the country. Those four suitcases are nothing compared to the things we've accumulated in our year and almost three months of marriage.
Everything feels like it should be significant, or someday will be when I recall to my grandchildren. "This is the couch we bought with wedding money, and your grandfather built me that table when we were engaged," I'll tell them.
But it's not just the furniture shouting to be remembered, it's the salt shakers and wedding leftovers and long-distance letters. I know they're just things. If we lose it all in a tragic fire and still have each other, all will be well.
He reminds me we don't have to sell it and pare down to four suitcases like last time. These are the dishes our kids will remember from their childhoods. These are the things of our marriage that make up our life together, even if they go to live in boxes for the time being. It will be like Christmas morning when we unpack them into the next place we call home.