Mover’s Dilemma Ken Appleman Downstairs in the basement, stacked on the dusty concrete floor, cold, lit by the glare of bare bulbs, is my life.
Well, not my life, exactly, but my life’s history. Papers. Books. Toys. Games. Old computers. Defunct cameras. A pair of binoculars so out-of-alignment no crossing of the eyes can eliminate the double image. All of it packed, securely, wrapped in newspaper or old junk mail, and stuffed, neatly, into plastic bins and cardboard boxes.
My life’s history.