I open a shoe box. It contains many other, smaller boxes. I have assumed for some years, whilst it sat at the back of my wardrobe in the old flat, that it contained, more or less, only cuff-links.

Indeed, most of the stuff there is exactly that. I am surprised and, I must say, delighted to find some boxes which contain gold rings. This was from the ‘gold’ phase. The ‘gold’ phase was before V and lasted for some years with V. Of course, for some years now we have been on the ‘silver’ phase. I look froward to the ‘gold’ phase return and, maybe, I will re-introduce that phase? After all, I have no one to tell me not to.

I also find a card, at the bottom of the box. It is a Christmas card but I cannot tell from what Christmas it was. I suspect a Christmas before Italy, since these cards are impossible to find here, Italians not being into ‘cards for every occasion’ like the English or Americans. The card professes things.

I start to read it but my eyes cannot focus on the words and, in fact, although it was only last night, I cannot remember a single word – except the word ‘love’.

I wonder, now and yesterday, if the words meant anything at the time they were written or whether it was just ‘the right thing to say’? I wonder whether anything really has any meaning from anyone? I even wonder if anything I think or say is real or ‘made-up’ in my head? Sometimes it feels real but does that mean it was or is or is it just in my head?

I throw the card with the other things that I am throwing away. Boxes that contain nothing and that aren’t even nice boxes, plastic bags, etc.

There is a moment of indecision as to whether I should retrieve it. I have kept it this long (but for how long?). But why? I haven’t read it for a number of years and, maybe, never since it was given to me, so why keep it longer?

Why bother to keep it now?

I steel my heart (for it is my heart that tells me to retrieve it and my head is telling me not to) and it gets collected up and thrown out with the rest of the trash of a past life.

‘It’s better this way,’ I tell myself.

Later…. I talk with the dogs since a) they will listen, b) they will not answer back or contradict me or argue with me and c) there is no one else to talk to. For Dino, this talking means that I want to give him attention, so I do, loving him for being there and needing me right now.

This is the fifth post I have written and, probably the only one that I will publish. Sometimes it is hard to write something that is even slightly worthwhile and even the slightly worthwhile ones are dubious. Maybe all of them? But, then, like talking to Dino and Rufus, it’s not for their benefit but mine. Does that make me selfish?