A tower of books is rising in the corridor, taller, wonkier by the minute, until it comes tumbling down.  I scoop the books into several plastic bags.  They’re going to Oxfam.  Books I no longer like.  Books I don’t care to remember I’ve translated.  Books which – after moving them from flat to flat to flat to flat – I finally give myself permission never to read.

A mountain of clothes is growing on the bed.  Clothes that no longer fit, clothes I no longer like, clothes kept for years, just in case – in case of what? I never found out.

I feed photos and letters through the shredder.  People, events I can’t remember or don’t wish to clutter my memory with.

I think of all the people I need to shed.  It’s hard at first: I want to keep them close to me.  Funny how easily they drift away once I let go.  I watch them float away absent-minded, unaware.  I know they can’t see me, but I wave goodbye anyway.  Thanks for all the lessons!

I pick up the broom and sweep, sweep, sweep.  Then I place the broom by the front door, as a warning to trouble.

I open the windows, let the wind blow into the room and the rain to sprinkle drops wherever it pleases.  Oh, joy! The wind and the rain know what they have to do.  They know what they have to bring me.  

I open the windows wider.  

Scribe Doll