I move out of my Buenos Aires apartment in less than 3 days. Nothing's packed. I'm not even sure if everything will fit in my luggage, despite the new duffel I bought from the arcade on Avenida Santa Fe.
Should I be worried? I don't know.
I've done this so many times it shouldn't require thought. Planning, packing, leaving. I mean, take your pick:
Confessions of a Serial Packer
The Old One-Two
Another Farewell: Cuzco
You'd think I'd have it figured out.
But I don't. I don't know where all my stuff is. I don't even know what stuff I have. In my mind, there are tiny, dusty possessions hiding in corners, under the couch, in the back of the cabinet that reeks of mothballs. I'll never find them all. Something will be forgotten, left here in this septuagenarian-painted 10th-floor one-bedroom, stuck in some mildewed crack, becoming mildew, until they tear the whole building down and cart away the rubble.
And I'll be somewhere else, a different person living a different life, and I won't even know it's gone.