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Two weeks ago today three people whom I'd never met knocked politely on my door at 8:15 am. They, along with the door, were standing in close to -40°C (-40°F) temperatures so I made sure to let them in quickly. The door stayed outside.


A more silent trio of people you could not find which, at 8:15 am, is generally a blessing. It's just that I didn't know them and here they were, filing in with flattened cardboard under armpits, come to pack teacups and four cases of books and a potato masher and photos and pens and everything else in our house that started with "p" and otherwise. Somehow I did want to know them, to pretend to anyway, to make the whole strangeness of strangers filling corrugate to the brim with my stuff normal.

But really, what's normal about it?

For all my congenial efforts I received brief replies, glossy eyes and the raucous sound of muted shuffling. Lost in paper and duct tape. What to do? I retreated to my room and sorted through clothes and luggage feeling ... just feeling.


The morning thawed into afternoon and a few words emerged along with coffee, filled boxes marking their progress. They were good people and I was thankful (yet again) that there are honest to goodness real live human beings who coexist with me in the Milky Way who choose a living packing and organizing other people's stuff. Such a lovely thing.