I'm in Toronto this week, packing up the condo, which becomes someone else's at the end of the month. Bob has more attachment to it than I as it was his first owned home, but I have appreciated it for several city visits in the past year. Nonetheless, it's time to let go. My daughter left things behind here, and even my mother left one or two items; each has the signature of the owner. My mum's frozen Fig Newtons and Portuguese tea towel are as distinctive as my daughter's CD holder decorated with her bulldog's puppy pix. And I left the green bottles, that is, I was an accomplice to them being here. I collected them just because they were a pretty green and looked good in my old kitchen atop a white shelf against a pale blue wall. They came into my house filled with wine, gin, salad dressing, whatever. I saved any bottle that was an interesting shape, any colour, as long as it was green, until I got enough to make an interesting cluster. When we renovated the kitchen, the dozen bottles found a new home in the condo kitchen. I looked up at them on top of the kitchen cupboards here and remembered the old kitchen, the renovation, the jokes we made about collecting worthless things. And I packed them.