Starting to move.

Dad has been in the process of moving for several weeks and yet nothing seems to have changed. Realising that the task is altogether too emotional for him I offer to help move boxes.

He has not packed anything. The contents of the house is hidden beneath layers of dust, dog hairs and papers of every variety. Many of the papers look like they could be important documents so I’m reluctant to throw them away. Instead I try to keep them in a rough pile. There are also receipts and old lottery tickets. I find a receipt for a pint of milk dated 1984 and bearing the old name of the village shop, which has changed hands at least three times since. I’m tempted to keep it as an artefact but it goes in the bin along with other minor debris.
J is pottering about, still very little and often in the way, but easily entertained looking at my childhood picture books.

My system of piling up things that look like documents and throwing away things that could only be rubbish works well until Dad comes in. Apparently I am doing it all wrong and none of this should be thrown away. He takes the bin bag from me and roots through it, retrieving, amongst other things, the receipt dated 1984.

The contents and layout of this house is not really safe for a small child and Dad insists that J and I go with him to the supermarket to get more boxes. This is a pretext. He doesn’t like the idea that I might snoop or try to smuggle out items that belonged to my mother. He’s right, though, I would do both of those things, given the chance.

Dad cruises the supermarket whilst buying things he deems indispensible whilst moving house. His choice consists of kippers, grapes and oats. These items would not be on my list of moving-house essentials. I persuade him to buy some juice in cartons and some biscuits for J, who is getting hungry and fractious.
As we leave, I pile Dad’s trolley with Pampers boxes. There’s room for plenty as Dad has only bought five things.

When we get back, Dad vanishes somewhere into the depths of the house. He has been living alone here for eleven years. Prior to that it provided space enough for each individual to never see any of the other three inhabitants without actively seeking to do so. I really have no idea where he is.

J sits on the floor drinking some juice and eating a biscuit. He’s mauling at a pop-up book which probably won’t pop-up for much longer.

I begin to stack some bits of dad’s stuff into a box. Bigger things that are distinct from the mass of mess. Most of the things in this bit of the house were my grandmother’s, stained and clogged with cigarette tar. I put them carefully into the Pampers boxes, sealing them using the tape dispenser Dad has equipped me with. It was almost definitely bought from QVC.

Realising that packing in this way is not yielding quick results, I revert to clearing surfaces directly into the boxes. This makes a bigger difference and I hope that seeing the change will start to make it easier for Dad.