WMS, where's my stuff.

Friday night the Warriors played the Knights in Royal City. It was a sad loss, a playoff game and therefore the final game of the season 56-13. On a happy note #61 played quite a bit. I'm just in shock he is soon to be a Senior and is working on his plans for life when he turns eighteen next year and adulthood: Scuba diver, Marine Bioligist? What will he end up doing with his dreams? Leading to me thinking about my life after raising two kids to this age. What do I want to do with it? The options are endless and new ones seem to be popping up all the time. But the first goal is to move to Ro-town back into my house and have that senior year with #61.

Man I miss him # 61, Mickey Blue eyes will be twenty-one soon so already out and about...and I miss my stuff. WMS, where's my stuff... is an Amazon phrase.

Last weekend I visited my stuff. It is currently in a small storage container on the outskirts of Roslyn, just off the roundabout. I find it shocking that a three bedroom house can fit in this tiny space. My couch that I bought with my quarterly bonus from Clearwire, that is perfect for a bunch of teenage boys to lounge upon to play vids or watch football. It is made of brown microfleece, one side is seven feet long the other nine feet. So cozy and yummy like a big tootsie roll. From that my eyes move down to the large red ottoman I bought in Denison,Texas for a steal. That we use as a footrest and tea table and then onto my petite armoire that I refinished years ago, after buying it at an estate sell for twenty-five dollars. Glancing at my Dads childhood brass bed and then at one of my newest pieces a pulpit. But thoughts of using it are turned away by digging through the boxes looking for a beloved jacket I cannot seem to come across.

Ah, but here are some socks, I have been looking for. Turning I spy a book that I want to reread, sitting that aside to take with me back to the sagelands, placing the socks on top of the book. Moving on to search under the drafting table that my ex-husbands Uncle made years ago, that his family asked me if I wanted after he passed away. It is beautiful, handmade and after taking a seat you can perch your feet on a large copper tube he placed there for that purpose. On top are piles of my oil paintings and blank canvasses. Popping my head underneath I look over the titles on the boxes and decide, perhaps I will adjust these just in case there is a lot of snow this year and water seeps in. My travel journals of Scotland, Ireland, Barbados and many more trips and stories. Also the irreplaceable: each of my son's baby books and photo ablums need to be on a second level off the ground. After that I move my watercolors off the floor too.

All this is exhausting and makes me long for the moment when it is all surrounding me again. Imagining myself sitting on my couch drinking a cup of tea, my feet propped against the ottoman looking at the stuff I love, all around me. My beloved books, small movie collection. The quilts my Mom has made me. My boots sitting in my closet and that damn brown corduroy coat I can't seem to find for another damn year, actually hanging on a peg waiting patiently for a walk.

Sighing, I tell all my stuff so long... I bring down the rickety red metal door and pound the lock into place. Hop back into my truck with just the socks and a book lying on the seat next to me.