Inanimate
I get attached. To people, sure, but to places and objects too. They become placeholders for memories, impossible to distinguish from the moments they represent.
This is the car we bought when our family grew from four to five. It was the car of camping trips, bursting at the seams; of long travels to see our family south of the border. The one Watson eagerly jumped into when we took him from the shelter, as if he’d always been with us.
We don’t need a second, broken down vehicle, however, so its time has come. But Héloïse will be in 7th grade next year—a brand-new school in a brand-new world—and she was once a baby in this car.
That’s what I mean by memories…
When letting go is like watching the last moments of childhood fade away.
