Yes. Today it begins. The year we name Twenty-Twenty.
There remain sixty days until I am scheduled to move out.
A mountain of sorting and storage awaits my elbow grease and sweat and blood and toil and tears, as the saying goes.
Some of it has been greased already, and sits in boxes, waiting to be moved down the hill into freeway valley, where I pay four hundred and twenty-two dollars a month for a rather large storage unit.
Much more of it waits to be arranged and put into boxes. I linger over old photographs of my grandmother. My father when he was a young boy. Me when I was a young boy.
Into the box. Lable the box. Put the small boxes into a larger box. Lable the larger box. Pile it in the room where we are putting everything we will take away to storage. I, we, they, us, me.
This is the first day. Sixty days remain. Or is it already fifty-nine?
. . .