Today, I cleaned the basement of an old woman. Her house, ruined from a terrible leaking roof, had no running water and little working electricity.

I entered her basement: damp and dark, musty and jampackedtotheceiling. In it were her precious memoirs, ancient valuables, and useless collectibles. Behind them? Endless piles of cheap drugstore novels. Decayed.

Our job was to “clean out.” To get rid of the get-rid-ables and keep the other junk. We filled a dumpster with her stuff. Her priceless memoirs, rendered useless from water and time, from moth and rust.

I was sickened.

This woman had stored her entire life, had saved her goods – hoarded her possessions – convinced she would use them or pass them on or keep them forever. And they were ruined. Worthless.

Why do we feel like things are so important? They are tools or they are gods.

When I die, whether tomorrow or when ninety-nine, I don’t want strangers or family – anyone – going through my stuff and finding worthless treasure piled high. I cannot leave a pile of junk behind for my children to throw away.