I am living in a stranger’s house. It is not the boxes which make it so; it is the absence of things. We sold the steamer trunk which served as our bathroom cabinet. As we were carrying it out, I realized that I’d owned it for nearly twenty years. I bought it in college and moved it around with me, but it has no place in NYC and is not truly irreplaceable. I have, in fact, coveted nicer ones that I couldn’t justify because I owned this one. I didn’t mind selling it.
But when I walk into the bathroom, it is no longer part of my house. This room belongs to someone else already.