I got up early this morning and sat on the couch thinking about our impending move to England. I found myself looking around the living room and making mental notes on each of the objects: we’ll take that with us, we’ll sell that, we’ll give that to somebody, we’ll take that… In the course of doing this, my eyes lit on the kitchen table (yes, the kitchen table is in the living room - it’s a long story). And suddenly the thought of getting rid of that kitchen table made me ineffably sad.

There is absolutely nothing spectacular about the kitchen table. It’s small and rectangular, with four metal legs, a white Formica top and two little leaves that extend for when we have people over for dinner. We got it for about $25 at the Salvation Army when we first moved into this apartment. It’s got a colorful tablecloth on it. It’s covered with stuff.

I was thrilled when we got the kitchen table. I had never had my own kitchen table before. We lugged it into the kitchen, got it cleaned up, and put some chairs around it. I plopped a candle and a basket of fruit on top of it, and all of a sudden the kitchen was my kitchen and my house was a home. I sat there in the sunny kitchen for ages, astounded at the transformation. I loved the kitchen table.

And now I have to think about getting rid of the magical table. And getting rid of the hideous living room furniture that Chris helped us get when we first moved in. The couch almost didn’t fit through the door, but we somehow managed to get everything inside and then we collapsed on the olive green upholstery, laughing at the bizarre wooden knobs and throne-like detailing on the chairs. I remember thinking that we had christened the new furniture with laughter, and that that was a good omen.

Then there’s the bookcase my dad bought for me when I first came to Germany, there are plants that started out as tiny clippings and have now grown into lovely green things, there are coffee tables and coffee pots and pots and pans, and I have to think about getting rid of all this stuff, and it kills me.

You see, I am a snail. I am a snail, and my house is a part of who and what I am. It’s always been that way for me. Maybe it’s a product of being an Army brat and needing something to cling to. Having my own stuff with me was a comfort whenever I found myself in a foreign place. “Home” has always been wherever my family and my stuff happened to be. My family and my stuff have been the only two constants in my life.

So I cling to stuff. It’s not for materialistic reasons. It’s so that I feel I have someplace to belong. It’s because everything I own has a story or a memory attached, and all those stories and memories make up the person I am. It’s all a part of me. I am a snail, and having the tiniest bit of my home taken away from me - even if it’s just a humble kitchen table - hurts me more than I can say.