Moving is an exercise in nostalgia; moving is holding and examining possessions long since lost to your memory, or those intentionally packed away. Tonight as Pavarotti fills the emptying space of this apartment I find myself examining so many books as they find their way into boxes--as alphabetically by genre as possible.
I smile at my friend who remembers where she was when she bought her favorite shoes, or at the one who can pinpoint exactly who was with her when she saw whatever movie, but it's always been books for me. Each book a visitation of a favored bookstore; dear friends; the city, state, or country I was in while reading it; a reminder of a lover.
So, here I sit wishing desperately that I were better prepared for this nostalgia night, wanting a tall glass of some type of red wine and long, pensive drags of a cigarette. But, pack on I must.