Today, I moved in. I moved half a box of books, three garbage bags full of formal wear, an air mattress, and forty-two photos from childhood. In a different box: six candles, four plants, and a giant flag representing my state. I moved two boxes of kitchenware, seven movies, and a handful of precious jewelry. Proudly on display, a statue of a Maori deity, and a length of receipt paper with a list of opinions and long lost poetry. Hanging in the closet are eighteen scarves, graced by six varieties of shoes. Packed away somewhere are my wind chimes, and the lighthouse snow globe that pings like a music box. My mirror looms stoically in the corner, overseeing the space, while it watches my face register the onslaught of a late-season cold. As the chaos becomes function, my worldly possessions scattered around me like aspen leaves, I wonder to myself: Is this who I am? What of these things enforces a definition? How can a small collection of inanimate objects so clearly reflect...