I would arrive home after work and spend the rest of the night staggering beneath my cardboard burdens, much like Christian in The Pilgrim’s Progress, except the only progress I was making seemed to be in my delusions. Eventually my two opposing mental forces would spin me into a standstill, whereupon I would turn off the lights and crawl into bed.

So, at 2pm today, I was tremendously surprised but pleased to discover my apartment held no more boxes. None. All of that staggering and spinning for 12 weeks had actually accomplished something.

This also marks the end of almost a year’s work, which starting with me walking into an open house and telling the agent I was just looking. I am done; I have completely moved in.

Now I just need to pick up the disgorged contents of my life and stow them away.

Maybe in boxes.

Scout meditates and becomes one with the new carpet.

Sitting on the bedroom floor with a cup of coffee and two groggy dogs on a bright weekend morning.

This is my life in boxes. The books that I’ve lugged across countries and decades, the photos of my grandparents in an ancient Seoul I never knew, the antique Smith-Corona typewriter I bought at two in the morning, the portfolio case full of watercolors and sketches that are my mother’s, my sister’s and mine.

They survived when many things did not — letters from relatives, trinkets from trips, jewelry from boyfriends. Each move reminds me of the person I am by the possessions I keep.

I shouldn’t forget to pack the bamboo birdcage.