A lot of my childhood stuff was discarded over the years, but neither I nor mom ever discarded Sad Baby. Plush in all parts except the face, she had a zippered-pouch in back cradling a music box. The soft body, with lilting musical tones, was a comforting snuggle.
The plushie eventually made her way from the east coast to California, her cloth frayed and worn, the music box long dead and disposed of. I washed her face, aired her out and alternately displayed her on my bed or stuck her in the garage.
Years passed. Sad Baby had been in the garage a while when a desire to declutter arose. My decluttering urges loop around regularly. Each time, something that survived the last cycle, does not make the current cut.
One de-clutter tip I’d read was to take a picture of an object cared about but no longer wanted. It would keep the memory without having to store the thing.
I looked at Sad Baby. “It’s time,” I thought. “Time to let go of you.” Sad Baby had been mine for 55-years.
I took a picture, tucked her into my trick trash, and she was gone.
Sad Baby comfortably lived in my memory. I didn’t miss her. I was content with my decision.
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