Marie Taylor, Ink

A teenage girl stands in the center of the playing field at the city park. She is surrounded by a half dozen plastic grocery bags all overflowing with odds and ends of clothing. One hand rests on her slender hip, the other covers her mouth.

She looks towards the road, then down the path; she shifts back and forth, and scuffs one foot in the gravel. Finally, she grabs the bags and loops the flimsy straps over both wrists. Her arms are stretched out long and straight, the bags hanging so low they are almost dragging on the ground.

She walks to a nearby park bench and sits down with the bags clustered around her feet like chicks. Head swiveling right and left, she continues scanning the field. Finally, she rises again, and continues down the path towards the playground, bags bumping against her thin legs.

As she disappears from view, a man with a long blond ponytail and wearing mismatched clothes, shouts from the parking lot. He is pushing a shopping cart piled high with blankets, plastic bags and water bottles. A pair of old tennis shoes dangle by their laces from the buggy.

A police cruiser is herding him towards the entry gate as he loudly protests the sanctity of his inalienable rights. “Is that what you’re gonna’ do? Follow me until I leave,” he shouts, putting one hand on the cart to steady his wobbling cargo. “I served my country and now I can’t get a god damn break!”

Suddenly, the patrol car swerves around the homeless veteran overturning his cart, and siren blaring, it speeds out of the park to investigate another civil transgressor. As the man picks up all his earthly possessions, a rusty station wagon enters the parking lot accompanied by the booming bass of heavy metal music.

A big-breasted woman with red hair and large white sunglasses gets out of the car and swings open the tailgate door. She unloads an assortment of brimming cardboard boxes and arranges them around the car until she is satisfied her wares are properly displayed.

Leaning against the rear fender, the station wagon woman lights a cigarette as she waits for customers. Surveying the scene, she spots a young man being pulled by two dogs straining at their leashes. “I got something your dogs are gonna’ love, dearie,” she yells as she grabs a stuffed animal from one of the cardboard boxes and waves the toy at the trio.

The dogs freeze and swivel their heads in her direction, legs stiff and trembling. “No, thanks,” the young man replies as he loads the now snarling dogs into the cab of a nearby pickup. The pit bulls shove their massive heads through the open windows and, their small eyes glinting with malice, give a final growl as the truck drives away.

The station wagon woman tosses the stuffed toy back into the box and is soon wearing a professional smile when she sees two old ladies approach pushing their matching walkers. They wear two layers of handmade wool sweaters, thick soled tennis shoes with wing logos and flowered head scarves tied tightly under their chins.

“How are you girls doin’ today?” the station wagon woman says as she clamps onto the elbow of one of the old ladies and pulls her towards the car. “I got some great deals here with your name on ‘em.”  

“No want, no want,” the old woman exclaims and jerks the walker back to join her companion. The two continue on their way, nervously looking back and excitedly chattering in a foreign language.

When I left the park that morning, I thought our lives are full of things we no longer want but cannot let go of. There is a whole industry that produces special boxes, drawers, lockers and containers just to keep the things we once desired. There is a whole cadre of consultants who will help us downsize, minimize and declutter for a price.

When we move and make a fresh start, we take everything with us. We drag all the bits and pieces out of cupboards and closets, garages and storage units. We haul it from place to place, and job to job, year in and year out. What we have stored away is not limited to material possessions.

Our lives are full of old stories, old dreams, old habits, old injuries and old attitudes. We store all this emotional baggage away, too, and then call on therapists to help us downsize, minimize and declutter our lives. Ironically, when we are forming a new relationship, one of our criteria is that ‘no one with old baggage’ need apply.