Storing Your Life

Recently I tried to explain to a friend how, when letting go of part of my life, I try to make a little mental box of memories, and put a small tag on it (hopefully something positive).  Then I stash it away and say good bye.

But then sometimes, there are real boxes you bump into.

My home in Seattle is up on a hill, like many are.  The street is about 10 feet or more below the house, so when you look up to the big picture windows you see the living room walls.

Being an anal-retentive art director sort, it took me two years to decide on a color for the living room.  Even then I didn't know what artwork to hang that folks could see from the sidewalk.

My boyfriend at the time solved that for me.

Today that box, which I had not seen in 5 years, was unwrapped.  The moving guys brought in a skinny 4 foot by 6 foot box, with the usual, "Where does this go?"

We cracked it open and I saw the frame, a very traditional gold frame, with the portrait itself covered.

"Ah! Yeah, don't unpack that."

It's a portrait of me, painted by my artist boyfriend who is incredibly talented.  A nude, me draped on a chaise lounge.  It really is quite beautiful - not that I am beautiful, but he is an excellent artist and it was painted with love.  And there is no doubt, it is me.

He gave it to me for Christmas, keeping me out of the house until he could hang it in the living room.  In...The Living Room.

Where anyone on the sidewalk, at the bus stop in front of the house, or passing by on the street can see it quite clearly.

I thanked him profusely, and indeed what a lovely gift....but o dear.

A few weeks later, the cable people had to come to the house.

Me, seizing the opportunity:  Hey Boyfriend, can you let cable people into the house for me?

BF:  Yes, sure!

.....

BF:  Um.  Cable dude came by.

Me:  O good!  Went okay?

BF:  We're moving the portrait.