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What would you take?
Jul. 10th, 2011 04:53 amThis BoingBoing post reminded me of the most terrifying day of my life. I was woken up in the middle of the night by a tornado siren. Growing up in Kansas, I'd become mostly unafraid of tornados by this point. I never knew anybody who'd actually been hit; they always went around our town at the last minute.
But they also always hit at the same time in the evening. It had never occurred to me that tornados might come at night. When the siren woke me, I was terrified.
In order, I grabbed: my dog, my glasses, and a pair of pants. Never mind that grabbing the dog first made it impossible to put on the glasses or the pants; I ran down the hall in my underwear, then put the pants on one-handed to check my brothers' rooms (both empty). I didn't zip them until I was in the basement.
Things it didn't occur to me to bring: my Special Blanket, which was actually in my hand as I slept. Legal documents. The dried rose memorializing my grandmother. Shoes. The books I loved as a child. Medicine. My photo albums from Europe, or my parents' photo albums of the last twenty years of their lives. Money.
In that moment, I found that I could let go of nearly everything. No matter how much sentimental value an item had, I was content with preserving only the memories and the feelings, not their physical anchors. And no matter how useful some things might be, I was confident that they could be replaced. I could have run down those stairs blind and pantsless, if I hadn't known that the siren gave me a little bit of a margin of error.
Everything in my life became mere things, and I left them, every last one.
What an odd moment to remember so vividly, trapped here in Italy, with only a carry-on's worth of belongings, and yet feeling so weighed down.
But they also always hit at the same time in the evening. It had never occurred to me that tornados might come at night. When the siren woke me, I was terrified.
In order, I grabbed: my dog, my glasses, and a pair of pants. Never mind that grabbing the dog first made it impossible to put on the glasses or the pants; I ran down the hall in my underwear, then put the pants on one-handed to check my brothers' rooms (both empty). I didn't zip them until I was in the basement.
Things it didn't occur to me to bring: my Special Blanket, which was actually in my hand as I slept. Legal documents. The dried rose memorializing my grandmother. Shoes. The books I loved as a child. Medicine. My photo albums from Europe, or my parents' photo albums of the last twenty years of their lives. Money.
In that moment, I found that I could let go of nearly everything. No matter how much sentimental value an item had, I was content with preserving only the memories and the feelings, not their physical anchors. And no matter how useful some things might be, I was confident that they could be replaced. I could have run down those stairs blind and pantsless, if I hadn't known that the siren gave me a little bit of a margin of error.
Everything in my life became mere things, and I left them, every last one.
What an odd moment to remember so vividly, trapped here in Italy, with only a carry-on's worth of belongings, and yet feeling so weighed down.
