Out went the years of credit card statements. The unused curtain rods. Cans of spray paint. The remnants of a previous career.
I’ve written about this before. The relief of discarding. Even my husband, the arbiter of cleanliness in our house, looks at me with exasperated eyes. “I just bought that.”
Still, I search closets, rifle through drawers, fill more bags with clothes for donation. The trash men must groan as they approach my house.
I know this is a stress reaction. The desire to control the uncontrollable. The ugliness in our country. The sense of violence that hovers just one provocation away.