One move - but not the first

I'm on the threshold to what used to be my room, in the middle of a move, between one country and another, surrounded by cardboard boxes, disassembled furniture and fixtures. I'm facing bare windows, empty walls and footprints.
I know I'm probably in the way for all the movers, all these heavy-set men in their work gloves, but I feel as though I have to keep an eye on what they're doing.
From here I can see, in all the places where dust hasn't been able to collect, contours of empty spaces where things used to be. And as the front door opens wide and the cold air begins to rush in, it seems more important than ever before to know what we're going to take with us and what we're going to leave behind. I need to know before all the dust gathers in new places and begins to roll around and erase all evidence of distinctions between choice and fate, between what's important and not, silence and dumbness.
In one clean space that never gathered any dust I can still see where the two cabinets stood, the ones that were white with details in pink. Our father had built them, one for my sister and one for me, even though he was no real carpenter. They looked the same, except for the doors, which chafed and opened from opposite sides.
On top of the cabinets I used to display my collection of historical dolls from all over the world, in their traditional costumes. Inside were two shelves full of books, binders, games like Monopoly and Scrabble and Concentration, jacks, marbles, rubber bands, glue, dog shampoo, scissors, water colors, pens, crayons, drawing pads – all in a terrible mess. I didn't really mind the disorder. I liked everything because it was mine, including the cabinet itself. It did bother me though that the door was difficult to open and close, and so for days it was either wide open or closed tight, apparently locked shut.

Tokyo, Japan 1960