That is a pile of goodbyes.  And I've only sorted my dresses.

When my dad was here he was worried.  Tash, let me help you.  I want to help you.  Please, let's just knock your closet out.  

I wasn't worried then.  And I told him that he shouldn't be either.

But I am now.

How in the world did I accumulate so many bright and colorful pieces of cotton.  How did I end up with a drawer of scarves and a drawer of tights and a drawer of swim suits.  And when did the drawers get so big.

Shoot.

I would like everything to fit in my little car.  That would make me feel like a better person right now.

But I'm beginning to think that I should have bought an SUV. 

Darn.  Darn.  Darn.

And then there are the dresses.  Oh the dresses. 

And the skirts and the shirts and the blouses and the sweaters and the teaching clothes and the Sunday clothes and the mountain clothes and the lake clothes.

Oh.  And the shoes.

I could drive home with a car full of just shoes.

But I won't. 

I am determined.  Whatever doesn't fit is gone.

Because I'm still in the moving phase.  And I've just signed up for two more years of it.  Two more years of trying not to accumulate more than what fits in my bags.

And so blue shoes.  You won't be coming with me. 

Goodbye lovely black dresses.   I only need one of you.

And my beautiful coats.  I'm afraid you'll have to part with each other.

My dad just wrote me to ask how my day was.

Bad.

It is bad.

My walls are bare.  My eyes are full.  And I am tired, so tired of goodbye lunches and goodbye hugs and empty goodbye promises.

And Jesus.  I know You're beside me.  Always.  But sometimes I'd really like a hug.  Or someone to sit on the edge of my bed with me and mourn the pretty parts of my life that I am leaving behind.

I'm going to get this done today.

Because the rest of my week is full of people goodbyes. 

So it's you and me David Grey.  Do your thing.  And pull me out of this.