It must be time

I spent yesterday cleaning out the old, bringing in the new.  In the attic that is.

What do a white and gold statue of Elvis and a cushy possum have in common?  They both occupy space on the floor of my spare closet.

A few months ago, Coco moved into a new duplex.  It’s a larger place than she’s had before, with more storage.  So we went through the ritual — pulled her boxes out of the attic, from atop the garage rafters, and from the extra closet.  She sat them all in the middle of the guest room and sorted through them, and took her most prized possessions.  Which meant the majority of the contents were now hanging out of boxes or strewn on the floor within a fairly close radius.  Remember Coco is the thrift store magnet, so while many of you would not see value in a gold belt with a rhinestone edged lions head buckle, a long white sparkly evening dress (why did I not take advantage of the moment and wear this to the Andy Williams spectacular?), and a Ronald Reagan mask, she does.

“I’ve got enough room for all of them now,” she claimed months ago.  “I’ll be back to pick them up in a week.”

Mostly I avoided the spare room, but it was always in the back of my mind.

And yesterday, being the 1^st and all, it was time.  I went to work, replacing box contents and carrying them back to their relegated place in the attic.  Yes, there were fewer boxes.  I even carted back the one labeled, “Books, unimportant.”  This is the same daughter that collected colored eggshells from peeled Easter eggs.  The same one who indignantly said, “You threw them away.”  I don’t remember, but admit it’s a possibility.

I stood a moment and admired my organization.  I knew the moment would be fleeting.  Every time I clean the garage or the attic, it’s like a call goes out far and near, that it’s time someone move their stuff back, or decide they need to search for one thing they know is packed, or…  You get the picture. 

So I texted Coco a message.  “I spent ywsterday cleaning the room putting ur stuff back in the attic, it must be time…”  (My spelling is still a little off on the texting.)

I wondered who was coming back next.

Related posts:

1. Christmases past
2. Sunday morning with kids
3. Motherhood Á la arsenic
4. My daughter’s wedding dress
5. The unique one