a carload of boxes one weekend,
two the next,
then the frantic push to fit everything into the truck
and then out of the truck and
into the house
--the new house, the empty slate.
Have to do it right the first time, or you'll regret it later.
At last you reach the final room, still a mess,
like everything that's left until the end,
and when it's clean and clear
of boxes, paper, trash,
the whole world seems to slot into place.
Later, you find the place feels bloated,
so much stuff scarcely needed.
Why do you still have those snowflake candlesticks?
Can you get rid of them?
Will Aunt Linda notice?
But the end result remains worthy of the toil: