Today I managed to fill a large contractor bag with paper scraps that I don’t need.  I started with pre-school drawings and finished with fifth grade mathematics.  Two small piles on the dining room table bear closer scrutiny, possibly scanning.  A huge cardboard box, now empty, has made its way to the recycle bin.  Two large plastic  tubs hold nothing more than  flakes of grime.  A few garments still fill a third, but they will go down to the big washer in the morning.  Of the six containers carried upstairs by a friend on Wednesday, only two remain to be sorted.

Four down, two to go, not counting the fifteen still weighing down the basement shelves.

I sift through the piles on the table, maybe 10% of the lot.  Here a drawing; there a certificate; in this folder, letters from a long-dead aunt.  I come across a faded copy of a Star Magazine, Christmas 2008:  Letters to Santa Claus from area residents.  I’m sure that I must have written one.  When I find it, I cannot help but smile.

My scanner will get a lot of use before I finish this purge.  I’ve shed a few tears.  I’ve taken some snaps with my phone and texted them to my son.   It’s slow going, but I’m not complaining.    I had my share of sorrows, but I didn’t box those — not many, at least.  These bins hold pleasant memories.  I take my time.

It’s evening on the twenty-ninth day of the forty-third month of My Year Without Complaining.  Life continues.