Went to the Town Dump last week. Went with my wife, Mary. We have a house that has too many nooks and storage spaces and we have filled them all with boxes and boxes of stuff. Yes, I am a hoarder. I admit it. I have artifacts of my past sitting on an old couch in the little gym in my basement. The couch itself is an artifact. Mary and I bought it way back in 1988 or so when we still lived in our beloved Manhattan. It’s big and red and has a sort of Aztec motif as a cover. I refuse to trash it. I see the scars of our young adult years, the spittle stains of our children, the gouges from their toys, the creases of their diapered bums, and the stains and thread weary corners from who knows what – I’ll elaborate no further but I am going to guess that we first thought of our children on that very couch. Throw it out? No way. And on it sits Frankie’s first grade cereal box project (“Lebron Crunch!”), Clare’s funny paper hat for mommy from her second grade, and Hannah’s carved mask of aluminum – gosh, is that from Columbia Grammar? There rests picture collages created by Clare and Hannah; in fact, two of them by Clare telling sweet stories of their young lives. I walk the treadmill or pump the bicycle pedals and think back on those days and my heart swells. I miss those days so terribly. I want them back. These little children. Those happy faces and the wonderful smiles, the laughter, the tiny little arms wrapping around my neck and the I love you, Daddy’s. In my imaginings, I believe déjà vu is a spiritual version of ourselves revisiting the wonderful moments. Maybe we can relive those days, but the price we pay we don’t want to fork up until we’ve exhausted all other possibilities. So, into the big dumpster went boxes and boxes of my past. On this visit, mostly my working past. Very mixed feelings as I tossed the files and records into that dumpster. They are now doomed for incineration. I am still angry about how I left that phase of my life. So this time I gleefully threw the files in the dumpster and Mary chatted with the manager of the dump. “I was in New York City once! Took a tour. Saw where they shot that Ringo Starr! I’ll never go back.” I felt a little of me melting away, escaping into the sky like the smoke of the incinerator. At the same time, I felt a cleansing was taking place. Why carry these mementos any longer? What if I drop dead and I am the next artifact offered to the incinerator? Why should I expect my children and Mary to take care of all of this, the detritus of my past? That’s not fair! So, toss it I did. I even took a picture of the filling dumpster. And soon I’ll be back. This will be a distillation of my life. Act 3. Out with the books. The pictures. Paintings done by Hannah, Clare and Frankie. Little pieces of art. Oh no, the toys! Will I be able to toss the toys? I wonder. Will I be able to tear them out of my own sadly desperate hands when what I really want I can never have?  “Tell you what – I’ll never get in another taxi cab again.  Those guys stop so fast, I just about…”  The dump dude.  He’ll get me through it.