As I pass"stuff" down to her (no disrespect intended, everyone has their stuff: most of it only truly comes to light when we move house...) from my precarious perch at the top of a stepladder, it occurs to me that men and women have very different approaches to moving house.
Here we are, D. and I, casually handing each other linen and pillowcases and shoes and chattering about how old they are and where they came from and what they're made of... while, in the next room, her husband and a male friend huff and puff and carry.
"These bedcovers used to belong to my grandmother!" D. tells me wistfully, stroking them as she sits awkwardly at my feet. "They are so cooling in summer, and yet so warm in the winter! Mmm... I wonder if maybe I might dye them another colour?"
I love to hear the little tales that unfold beneath each dusty object.
I wish we had more time to talk about the things I'm placing hapzardly in cardboard boxes.
And that's when I realise that, for us women, moving is about savouring, evoking, sorting, remembering...
... while for men, well - a glance back out into the living room confirms - for men it's kinda just about putting stuff in boxes.
1 comment:
Oh, I so know what you mean. I cleared out the top of a close yesterday and found the silk scarf I wore at our wedding. I had to leave it out for the evening before tucking it away again, just to enjoy the memory.
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