I was sentimental . . .

. . . about the green plastic bag I found under my bookshelf this morning as I swept the floor of my apartment. I'm not sure how it got there, but is has probably been there 6 months, when I carried that small shelf up on the subway last September, the only piece of furniture I took when I cleared everything out of my old place and had it cleaned so the real estate broker could show it.

As my divorce progressed things at home deteriorated at an accelerating pace. So, in April of 2006 I moved out. By that point things were so bad I thought I'd end up getting stabbed in my sleep and tabloid newspaper reporters would be asking my neighbors and friends "Why didn't he get out when he could?"

My wife traveled a lot for her job, and on the advice of my lawyer I moved out while she was on a trip. My lawyer was right; it was best not to have some sort of confrontation while I was trying to pack or with moving men trying to do their work. I didn't take any furniture with me to my new apartment in The Bronx. Most of what I own is books and clothes (mostly books). I bought an inflatable mattress (by summer I found my circumstances to be just a bit too zen and bought a deckchair). I had one plate, one bowl, one knife, one fork--you get the idea. Heather, a writer friend of mine, gave me a few more plates and few pieces of cutlery.

I really will get to the green plastic bag in a paragraph or two . . .

The moving men cleared me out of my old place, but I had needed an extra day to pack. The moving men took the important stuff, but I still had books mixed in with her books, clothes tucked here and there in drawers I hadn't opened in years, food in the kitchen that I know she would never eat (I like to cook, she never did). Now, I should mention that at this low point in the unraveling of our marriage, my wife never told me where she as going on her trips or for how long. She could be in Europe, South America, or Asia, and it could be a three-day trip or a three-week trip.

So, after the move I had an unknown number of days to carry out the rest of my stuff. Whatever I didn't take, she might destroy (or let me take; I really didn't know at that point). For two weeks I swung by my old apartment on the way home and filled another box or two and a large strong nylon bag I had. I would then carry that on the subway up to my new place. (There is no way a taxi could have done this faster, and between my legal bills and my psychotherapy bills, there wasn't much money for long taxi rides up to The Bronx.) I would drop off my stuff in The Bronx and come back into Manhattan and do it again. On weekends I took many round trips. There was no time to cook or even wait for takeout food. I would stop by my local Korean deli on my way to the W. 79th & Broadway IRT station and buy an apple and whatever overpriced organic smoothie seemed to go with an apple--which the cash register girls put into a green plastic bag for me. If the train was slow in coming, I could eat everything in the subway station, but if the train came quickly, I might not get a chance to eat till I got back to The Bronx. (By the way--if I may be sarcastic for a moment--there's nothing quite as enjoyable as hauling a piece of nylon luggage with 40 pounds of books in it on a crowded D train up to The Bronx after a long day at work except, perhaps, a divorce.)

By the time she got back from her trip I was willing to lose whatever was left in my old place if it came to that. As it happened, she did not toss out my stuff. She let me take the rest of what was mine and in the end gave me the small bookshelf (which folds flat, making it possible to carry on a subway train).

One of those green bags made its way under that shelf. That Korean deli lost their lease about 6 months ago and its old premises are now two upscale stores that no doubt are paying much higher rents than a place that sells apples and fresh carrot juice.

Anyway, this morning I found one of those green bags that one of those cheerful Korean cash register girls put my apple and drink in. The store is gone. The apartment I lived in longer than anyplace else in my life is gone. That exhausting episode is gone--except for this empty bag that recalled it all for me. I'm gone too; well, not really, I'm here in my new apartment, which needs sweeping now and then. Do I need a green plastic bag? I thought. I keep too many things. I threw it away.