The temperture-controlled storage unit is crammed full of antiques, collectibles, photos of years gone by, first teeth, lock of hair, scribbles from every grade of their lives, weighted disappointments, grand accomplishments, and so very much more from granpa's life.
A box of mix and not-matching ceramic mugs won't fit in the designated space so something clearly has to go. Will it be the sterling silver trophies from grandad's glory days? How about the collection of antique dolls from all over the world, with their refined hair, detailed outfits, and glass eyes he bought for grannie? The scholastic books, considered massively important to retain, are now seriously outdated textbooks. Someone could buy them by the foot and look very scholarly...or insane!
The relics from the past few generations, some of which no one really understands their function, clumped together, strategically placed at the back of the unit so-as-to forget they are holding so much precious space. Can't get to 'em so we'll bamboozle the first few reachable boxes out of the stack and head back home.
Mission accomplished.
Now we can forget about the stuff, hidden away, the dirty little secret stash of crap . The disaray that destroys the ability to love fully, colors their world. Concerned relatives attempted to help eliminate some of the mass, but eventually give up pressing the issue, and slithered away.
He became agoraphobic awhile ago.
His imagination seems satiated, on a steady diet of fear and trepidation about the present. It prevents him from having a relationship with the cat, let alone anyone else in the family.
He doesn't face the consequence of his paranoias. Nor the landmine with his name on it.
