It’s déjà vu.  A year ago, I was packing my house to move to South Carolina.  Now, I’m packing them back up.  Same boxes, stored in the attic, already labeled, bursting with bubble wrap. Same stuff, but a different me loading them up. 

I needed muscles to pull off a yard sale, but it was more than my neighbor kid could manage.  Stuck between a wall and a wardrobe, I heard a familiar voice call through the open door, “Ms. Palma?” 

There was Trey, one of my students from alternative school last year.  It turns out, his father is my neighbor kid’s uncle, and he’s staying next door while they close on their new house.  In thirty minutes, everything I wanted to sell or give away was waiting in the carport for morning light, just me and Trey.

It was more than coincidence my student stumbled upon me in my hour of need.  Trey had offered to help me move during the last week of school, but he didn’t return my texts.  It turns out, he’d gotten a new number; he never would have known how to find me. 

As we worked, we talked, just like mornings at Project Go throughout our year together.  Only this time, we were on my turf, in the midst of moving chaos, no makeup and dirty sweats, exploring Trey’s skillset instead of ELA. 

He saw the best way to navigate large furniture through doorways with tight corners, could assess where the weight would shift and swap spots with me, and lift heavy pieces with ease and confidence.  I got the chance to encourage him in his new job and give advice more like an aunt than a teacher, reminding him of the importance of balance and moderation in life as well as moving. 

I also told Trey it was God who sent him to my doorstep, an answer to prayer. 

During my weekend yard sale, I got to know the rest of Trey’s brothers.  They all bounced from house to house all weekend playing with my dog, Tito, while Trey’s soon-to-be-stepmom, Brandi, imagined all of my furniture in their new home.  Somehow, the thought of letting go of the china hutch I bought in 2004 for my first apartment in Nashville was easier void of my china and full of someone else’s dreams. 

Brandi’s hope at starting over eight years after her divorce was infectious, and she kept me company while I packed boxes, even watching over my sale so I could dip out for church and hug on Mama Sue and Durwood and my friends there.  I never expected to have such similar tastes; Brandi loves butterflies as much as I do, and she was happy to purchase some gently used décor.

By afternoon Sunday, I was ready to be done with the yard sale.  I quoted Brandi a figure to just take everything that was left.  She giggled with delight, then promptly took down all the yard sale signs. 

Mom taught me the cardinal rule to streamline a move, the Give Away, Throw Away, Put Away method.  Whenever I get the spring-cleaning itch or have to box up my life and move elsewhere, I make three piles, and I consider every item and make one of three choices for it: give away, throw away, or put away.  

This move has an added curveball.  I’m putting most of my belongings in short-term storage.  So, it’s keep with me, give away, throw away, or store away.  I think this was the game-changer that enabled me to part ways with more this move than ever before.  For each item, I had to consider another question first: can I live without this for six months? 

And once I’d decided I didn’t need it for six months, it became easier to choose give away or throw away. 

And just like with my Crawford friends back in Virginia who love to wear my hand-me-downs, realizing Brandi was just the right size for all my smaller clothes, I was able to unload a storage tub with her giggling in glee at power suits, summer dresses, and everything in between.  It was easy to give them away.

While going through those bins with Brandi, I found a hooded sweatshirt misplaced, one I’d been looking for since March 19^th when I got the news that my last love had passed away.  It was like finding hidden treasure, and though it was too hot to put it on, I buried my face in it. 

“Does it still smell like him?” Brandi asked.

Not after all these years, how could it?  It had long since lost Josh’s scent, though I remember him spraying it with cologne when we had to be apart months at a time, and I wish I could remember the name of the fragrance he wore.  There are so many questions I would ask him if I got another chance. 

My best friend Mary Beth’s new husband has been dishing out a lot of advice lately, free of charge.  I told him about my give away, throw away, put away method.  He suggested that I need to do something similar with my emotional baggage, see which relationships I’m carrying around that need to be surrendered. 

He wasn’t quite so verbose, but I got the analogy.  Save for Josh’s clothing, I gave Brandi my collection of ex-boyfriend’s T-shirts.  It was a physical expression of a very real mental shift. 

It’s been a decade since my divorce, and I spent a year and a half in therapy properly coming to terms and laying that relationship to rest.  I feel peace when I speak of our marriage.  I carry no grudges or resentment.  There was healing.

But a half a dozen false starts with other men and failed fledgling friendships with other women in my thirties took its toll.  That hope in starting over that I see in Brandi feels far away.  Mary Beth’s husband thinks that this six-month writing sabbatical is an opportunity to learn to love myself again. 

I promised him I’d stop carrying myself like the ugly stepsister.  My past relationships don’t define me.  My possessions don’t define me.  I am a sum of my likes and preferences.  I could have my heart broken ten times.  I could give away or trash all my belongings.  Beneath them all, I’m still Laura Joy. 

And at the end of the blog, it’s Ms. Casey, my eighth-grade math teacher, whose voice I hear.  Mom ran into her the other day, and Ms. Casey asked, “How is the Joy of Laura?”  After more than two decades, she still remembers me by the nickname she gave me. 

That’s a relationship I’ll put away, keep to treasure for another day.  There are others I need to mentally discard, but Ms. Casey saw a joy in me, the same one Mary Beth’s daughters see, even the way Trey sees me somehow. 

They make me believe in a better, brighter me, like I’m already a precious treasure hidden in the wrong box being rediscovered.