Skinny Son has been officially moved out for almost four years now, except of course for the stuff in the garage. And the shed. And the back yard.

So when Mouse announced she was "moving," I was not hysterical.

Then I went home two days in a row at lunch time and she was sitting cross-legged on her bed, actually sorting. And when she sorts, she sorts.

The garage sale mountain is growing high in the basement, and she filled my Dumpster completely from empty to overflowing in one afternoon. She used two boxes of garbage bags and then told me I was out.

I got two great pair of shoes out of the deal and was given permission to go through the garage sale stuff when I have the chance for potentially more.

But there was still enough stuff in her room to make me think she really wasn't permanently gone and had just been "spending the night" for two straight weeks.

Then the friend came with his truck and helped her take apart and move all of her furniture. She comes back for little bits of small stuff at a time, but there is enough left to convince me now that maybe it'll be there for awhile.

Things like her guitar and her snowboard are still in her room, along with two large labeled "memory" crates tucked downstairs that will probably be there for awhile.

But the 37 bottles of stuff that were hers in the shower are all gone, as are all of her electric, carpet-burning hair implements.

I was married with two children, visiting the parents in Tempe, Ariz., while my brother was also there, when Fritz the Dad hauled the brother and me to the pristine, immaculate garage, with shelves full of boxes that actually closed, each labeled in his trademark, scrawled writing.

"See these boxes," he said. "They either leave when you do or they're gone."

Those boxes filled with personal treasures of mine and my brother's had been paid for by the NFL to move from Laramie to Detroit, Detroit to New England, New England to Orange County and Orange County to Tempe.

Mine were full of college junk, stuff I had on my bulletin board, my diploma and my transcript. And boxes and boxes of unlabeled, unsorted photos.

Since we had driven the big boat of a car to Tempe, we hauled them back in the trunk. Now they're in the basement in the same room with Mouse's memory crates.

Do I need everything in there? Not really, except I did find the exact date I needed for a recent column.

My theory on sorting is that I could sort every day and diminish the contents by some. Whether I'll ever empty a box is at this point questionable.

So Mouse is gone and what remains are her walls painted bright red. I need to buy a bed, which I will tell her is for a guest room. She thinks she'll never "need" to come back.

But just like her brother's junk in the garage and her stuff in the basement, there will always be room for her - always.

Reach Community News editor Sally Ann Shurmur at (307) 266-0520; sallyann.shurmur@trib.com or see her profile and blog at my.trib.com/Sal/blog