Rings. Necklaces. Pins. Bracelets. Chains. One bin for each type of jewelry. My fingers blacken with dust and from rubbing old metal. Some of the pieces fall apart when I sort them. I toss the broken pieces into a cardboard box.

An hour passes.

My body cramps. My knees begin to scream. Sobbing, I sort.

Why did I ever buy all of this? What good does it do me for it all to sit in boxes in a storage unit, year after year? What is wrong with me? Why can’t I just stop trying to fill my empty space with stuff that doesn’t matter, can never matter?

By the time the jewelry is all divided up, my entire body aches as though I’ve been beaten. I can barely get to my feet. Everything creaks and cracks. My fingers barely have the strength to grip the first bin I lift. It starts to fall, but I manage to clutch it to my chest.

My own sweat stink hangs in the air. I cradle that bin like a baby. I close my eyes. It could go right back on the shelf, couldn’t it? I did the hard work of sorting it all out; that was an accomplishment, wasn’t it? Surely that was enough for today. I can come back tomorrow. Tomorrow, I can take the bins to the local vintage consignment store and see what they’ll give me for it …

“No.” I say this out loud, harsh and firm, as though I’m warning a naughty dog to get out of the garbage. “Not tomorrow. Now.”

I have a duffel bag large enough to fit all five boxes, because of course I do. I got this one at a thrift store and couldn’t pass it up because it had a pattern of honeybees on it, because for a while I collected everything that had bees on it. I told myself I liked the bright yellow sunshine optimism of bees and flowers. Because I could. Because every time I found a new piece in “my pattern” it was a shock straight to the pleasure center of my brain.

The truth is, I don’t give a single fuck about bees.

I shove the boxes in the duffel and zip it up. It’s heavy, but I can manage it. I wrestle it out to the car and shove it in the back seat, then go back inside the storage unit and find the box with all the bee stuff in it. I really don’t have time to sort it right now, so I take the whole thing.

My heart races, my palms sweat, I’m having what feels like a panic attack, but I close up the storage unit and get back behind the wheel.

Today will only be the second time in ten years that Eli has come home from school to an empty house, but I need to get these boxes out of my car. If I take them home, even if it’s only into the garage, I will persuade myself to leave them there. I have to do this now. I text him, though, to make sure he doesn’t freak out. Dad gone. Mom gone, too? I wouldn’t do that to him.