Quint - How Heavy are Memories?

And so, while I was packing jeans and T-shirts and notebooks full of formulae, I was also trying to find space for fragments of my identity; things that would remind me of the fragrances of home, and the warm, familiar cacophony of brick, tar, dust, and noise.

I created a small crater in the middle of the clothes and tried to make decisions. A photo album with 32 snapshots of family, or a larger framed picture that I could hang on a hook? A CD with nine carefully curated songs, or a Walkman with tapes of childhood gibberish? The books that I was halfway through, or the ones I had dipped into repeatedly over the years?