I suppose currently, the chore we avoid in this household is decluttering. It’s not like we’re hoarders wending our way through mountains of discarded pots and old newspapers, but we’re both writers, which means we’re both loathe to throw or give away books, movies, letters, magazines, paperwork, etc.
Going through these things involves a daunting level of personal archaeology. Dizziness can set in when you find a cancelled check written in 1996 to the hairdresser who did that dye job that blistered your scalp and realize it was in the last century. A Sacred Spaces calendar from 1986 can result in a twenty-something ghost appearing in a puff of patchouli-scented smoke, wearing her favorite tree-of-life indian-print skirt and snapping, “Don’t throw that away! I need it.”
Explaining to her that decades have passed, and that note she added in November about her flight from SFO to see the parents at Thankgiving is now irrelevant, gets you nowhere. She just can’t comprehend it.
And deep down, neither can you.
Pam Troy 