Just 12 days to go before I leave my home of 26 years and head off for pastures new. The sorting of my “treasures” is the worst part, as things I once deemed important, are now being relegated in to different piles and boxes. I’m sure whoever finds them in the charity shop will deem them worthy of a new home. It’s the smells that assail the senses the most, as I fold clothes that my children grew out of long ago, but I was too sentimental to throw away. The scent of past summers are trapped within the fibres of cool cottons and woolen, winter gloves, the fingers cement hard from snowball fights, bring a tear to my eye. As the countdown continues, I watch as all these things are carried to car boots and driven away and I feel a horror at their going.In time, I’m sure their memory will slip from my mind, but for now, I will mourn their going. Letting go is never easy.