Somewhere in the midst of the haze of the pandemic – back when days, weeks and months blurred together to form a moment in time – my parents decided to sell my childhood home. It was an emotional endeavor, one that involved sorting through over 40 years’ worth of memories that had been shoved into every nook and cranny of the house.

When I was summoned to the basement to sort through the pile of my stuff that remained despite me not living under that roof for nearly 15 years, I was dismayed by how much I had accumulated. Overwhelmed, I took it home, only to move it all again a year later when my husband and I ourselves relocated, never properly examining the contents that threatened to explode the Rubbermaid bins.