Last night, my mother was in my dream again. I don't really remember what the dream was about, but part of it was that she was helping me move. Which, had things turned out differently, she might have been doing next month.
Actually, that's not true -- I never would have let my mother help me move. I would have let her help me pick out the condo, but I would never in a million years have let her pack or unpack my stuff. She'd complain the entire time about how much work it was and how much useless stuff I have. Which is why the last time I let her help me move was when I moved into my first dorm room.
And like she would have been one to talk. She has boxes in the house -- which she and my dad moved into six years ago, a few weeks after I moved into this apartment -- that haven't been unpacked since they left New Jersey in 1988. I may have 100 pairs of shoes, but she has at least that many. I learned from a pro.
Eventually I'm going to have to go down to Florida and help my dad go through those boxes. And I am looking forward to that even less than moving the contents of my closet to the new place.