I spent the whole of Good Friday crawling around on my hands and knees, clearing out the stuff we had accumulated in the loft. When my husband (then boyfriend) moved into my small flat four years ago, some of his stuff and what seemed half my life had to be moved into the space above our bedroom.
It has stayed there, unloved and ignored, ever since – partly because we never got round to sorting it out and partly because not only is my husband terrified of spiders, we also had an invasion of wasps a while back which led to him putting a ban on opening the loft hatch for fear of what we might find.
Eventually, he agreed that I could venture up there, with the help of a friend who has no fear of insects. In the end, there were a few dead wasps and ladybirds scattered about, a selection of cobwebs and, in one corner, an empty wasps’ nest – which I managed to remove quite easily. In fact, it was quite beautiful – like a paper-thin honeycomb without the honey.
Now the hatch is closed again and we are faced with the task of sorting through box after box of old paperwork, bags of clothes, books, memorabilia and other assorted life detritus which may or may not have sentimental value.
I smiled at the irony of finding a couple of crucifixes (from my Gothic phase about 20 years ago) on Good Friday, and left for another day the big box of vinyl that I’ll never play again.
There was inevitably lots of stuff we simply didn’t know why we had kept, plus old printers and various electrical goods that no longer work or are surplus to requirements. But the most poignant moment came when I started sifting through a box containing keepsakes ranging from a cassette tape given to me on my 18th birthday to a ticket stub from my favourite Prince concert in 1988 to the cards I was sent on my 40th and 50th birthdays – stories of a life.
I also found something I thought I had lost: a poem written for me in 1985 by one of my best friends, who died of cancer three years ago (see yesterday’s post). I had wanted to find this poem so that it could be read out at my wedding in 2010 but had failed to do so with only two weeks to go.
Then, at the eleventh hour, I was saved by another of her closest friends who had inherited some of her possessions. He had found a photocopy of the poem in a folder and sent it to me, wondering if I might be interested.
He had no idea I was looking for the poem, and I’d had no idea my late friend had made a copy of it. I burst into tears and thanked her out loud. I was sure she had guided him to it. The poem was duly read on my wedding day and there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.
The universe moves in mysterious ways. Some would say it was a coincidence I found the handwritten original of the poem on the third anniversary of my friend’s death. I would say it was perfect timing, and I’m telling myself the story that she had a hand in it.
So now not only have I created inner and outer space by getting rid of stuff I don’t need any more, I have also found something incredibly important to me which I will now put in a very safe place and treasure for the rest of my life.
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