A group of friends were talking about downsizing. Not their own, but their parents'. As people age, their belongings can slide from being a trove of useful tools for a rich life, to a weighty burden.

One of them talked about the endless stream of decisions. What to keep. What to toss. What to sell, if she could find the right buyer. The process is draining, and there are no bells that ding when you choose rightly. There is often the added guilt of devaluing your parent's treasured collections, or historic letters. Yet at what point do the memories belong in your heart and not your basement? 

"Your past shouldn't become my future." As soon as the woman said it, I smiled.

In the past year I have tried to whittle away at the accumulated stuff in my drawers and closets, in the hopes that it might find a better home. Art supplies I no longer use, clothes that never get chosen on a busy morning, landed in bags to donate at the local thrift store. This week I conquered the hills of papers on my desk, and thinned out the accumulated files. The desk itself is a fine piece of furniture. But it was hidden under the clutter. 

It is of course a metaphor for our lives. What manner of debris do we hang on to in our thoughts? Expired comments, stale responses, worthless complaints. They obscure visibility to what is actually lovely... the underlying relationship.

This week old friends invited John and me to dinner on a whim. Entertaining used to be a priority for us, but in the years dominated by Benjamin management it has evaporated. Hence I was both delighted and surprised. The six of us ate salmon and fresh corn rolled right on the butter stick as if we were family. Cherry pie with a criss crossed lattice was our reward. I realized that the hostess was the cohort when John secretly masterminded the complicated hauling of that oak desk many years ago. She was tasked with distracting me until it was in place in our living room. 

What amazes me is how patiently those friendships wait to be rediscovered.