when house-moving gets emotional…

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I’m sniffing as I write this.

I have just woken Graham up with my uncontrollable sobbing. Scenes of our house-moving this afternoon had flared up in my mind as I laid down to sleep. And a huge sense of loss lurched up in my throat and forced the tears to my eyes as I remembered the many things I’ve done in my room over the past 20 odd years.

The tears I’ve cried in anger when I rebelled against my parents, the delight and joy when I read God’s word, the times I’ve knelt by my bed in prayers, the homework and craft I’ve sprawled all over the floor, the bliss when I curled up in my armchair with a good book.

Each piece of furniture has a piece of story to tell. I felt cruel stripping the room bare of its old friends, my friends. The Ikea armchair I’ve bought and hauled home to the 12th storey by myself, the hi-fi I was so pleased with because I never had a CD player my whole life, the little pink drawers with all my makeup and nonsense, and the little kiddy stool I sit on.

Now it’s not the same.

I will never be back in the same room again.

These memories were so visual in my head they broke my heart.

And the tragedy that it will be lost with time.

Now my husband sweetly sleeps in the sofa across me. He lovingly came downstairs with me (albeit in a semi-coma state) so that I can get a hot drink and calm down.

The last time I cried this suddenly was over dinner at Army Market. I had found an old flask that belonged to my grandfather that day and decided to bring some homemade masala tea along in it. The words “this belongs to my grandfather” barely made it out of my mouth that I started sobbing like a baby!

When he asked me why I was crying, I gasped: “Because…. my… grandfather…is no longer around!” Then I continued to bawl some more. The whole army market must have thought he was a jerk to make me wail that much.

What is this about objects? I never liked portrait photograph much but still life moves me immensely. Especially when they are mine.

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