Dear Stuff:
I don't know how to break this to you... but we're moving again. I know. I know. How many times can one person move? You're right. How many times have I promised that it was the last time? All I can say is that I'm sorry.
Some of you have been with me since I was a teenager. Let's not try to calculate exactly how long that is. Some of you have stuck with me through 28 years of marriage, the birth of three children and three grand-children. I will reward your senority with extra bubble-wrap. I know you're old. And tired. I am, too.
I know some of you carry the scars of sharing a life with me. Cracks, chips, wrinkles, fading and yellowing. I share your pain. Children have written on you with crayons and magic marker. Dropped you and used you for lowly tasks un-befitting of your value to me. I swear, I swooped you up every time I saw the kids using you as a kitty dish or ashtray.
And I haven't forgotten the brave stuff that didn't make it through the moves. I shudder when I recall the roughness of the past moving men. The poor items left behind in the old places or the moving vans. My heart still aches for the stuff I lost to my ex-husband in the divorce. If I ever start dating a burglar, I assure you, I'll have him rob the ex's place and get you all back where you really belong.
Please try to have positive thoughts. Every time we move, you all get a good cleaning. I find new places to show you off. I reminisce of the day I got you. What could be better than that? And, as with every move, there will be new stuff. They may be shinier and brighter, but they will never replace you.
Please... forgive me. I will watch over the young bucks helping me tomorrow, and scream at each and every one of them to be careful, every five minutes. I already have extra tubes of glue in case of emergencies.
