Every weekend since the first of this year I’ve spent time sorting the contents of my attic. Broken lamps, old clothes saved for possible costumes, worn out pillows whose stuffing might come in handy one day . . . my ex-husband kept it all. And since the attic was accessible only by dragging in the A-frame ladder we kept in our shed, I was happy to let him use it and organize it however he wished.

But then he was gone and, like so many other things, it became my mess to clean up. I dreaded fetching Christmas decorations and was embarrassed when a repairman had to climb up there. Suddenly, what I’d been content to ignore now felt like a weight hanging over my head.

So, last year, the man I was dating installed a new set of attic stairs for me. How’s that for a metaphor? My first post-divorce relationship gave me access to remnants of my marriage that I couldn’t easily reach. Ouch!

Now, with no more excuses (and no more post-divorce relationship to fill my free time), I’ve been digging through 20 years of poorly stored treasures and miscellany saved for its potential. Every week I hand junk through the attic opening into the waiting arms of my boys, who haul it to the outside trash bin and keep hauling until that bin is full. Every week we marvel aloud at how much crap our attic collected. Every week we’re ambushed by a memory of their dad. And every week this process leaves me with a weird mixture of relief and grief.

Letting go does not come naturally to me, but I’m trusting the end result will be worth it. My home and my heart are both too precious for there to be any wasted space. Instead of seeing potential in the things others left behind, I’m creating room for whatever (or whomever) is coming next.