We are getting ready for the wedding, and the move. The apartment is in chaos, with boxes everywhere and piled boxes and bags of things to be given away, sold, shipped. There is so little that we can take with us: clothing, personal items, a few books, family photographs. There are decisions to be made about things that we love: my funky old cherub’s head that has hung on my wall for twenty years. Phil’s swords and golf clubs. I’ve packed the dog’s skull that sits on my desk, my daggers and my Where the Wild Things Are figures. Do I take the painted chest? Probably not. All of my books are packed into smallish boxes that I will have shipped eventually. I’ve never lived without my books; when I move, they are unpacked first. I alternate between panic and excitement.