If my apartment was on fire, I would become very zen. If, on returning from class, I found it all up in smoke, I would first check to make sure I had my computer in my backpack. And then I would cry tears and tears for my lost stuff. It’s funny how much my junk matters, at least to me.
If I was in my room when the fire broke out, I would turn and grab a bag, stuffing my computer and prized copy of Pride and Prejudice in first (computer for practical purposes, book for obsessive) and try to find my stuffed bunny my arms have cuddled at night since I was born. As I searched frantically for my bunny, I would hear my mother’s voice in my head, telling me that it is all just material things, and I should run out and save myself.
I thank the Lord Wheaton doesn’t let my cat live with me.
I find my wallet, grab my file folder containing passport and birth certificate, and leave. The only thing not in easy reach of my desk is the bunny, but I refuse to leave without it.
As I leave I remember my tea accoutrements and knitting. The bridesmaid dress from my sister’s wedding. The posters of literature quotes I bought at Blackwell’s in Oxford. My books. My mugs, each with their own story. My clothes for the cold days ahead. But I have already left it all. I cannot go back.
Again, I thank God Wheaton does not allow cats.