According the great philosopher Anonymous, “Home is where the heart is — even if you can’t remember which box you packed it in.”

I’ve been packing boxes and slowly losing my checkbook, keys, underwear and my mind. They’re all in there somewhere — except maybe my mind — and in two or three or 17 years, I’m positive I’ll find everything again.

The situation is that after nearly 28 years working at “The Word Factory” (as the great philosopher Tom Wills dubbed it) in Warren, I am leaving my big-city job as features editor of the Tribune Chronicle and The Vindicator, and moving to Falmouth, Kentucky, to edit a small, century-old weekly named The Outlook.

Or as my daughter puts it, “Dad, you’re going to star in your own Hallmark movie!” Except that it’s not Christmastime. And neither Candace Cameron Bure nor Lori Loughlin nor any of the other usual Hallmark suspects are anywhere in sight.

My romantic lead, my sweet wife Terry, passed away in June and I have been floundering since. Regular readers know that any sensible ideas that ever occurred to me popped into my head because Terry put them there.

This adventure is one among many daydreams Terry and I entertained. We were going to embark on lots of adventures. One day, I would retire and we’d sell the house, move into a motorhome and travel the country. I’d write best-selling books (I did say this was a daydream) from the motorhome as we explored wherever the roads took us.

Seven months ago, she took an unexpected road, one that wasn’t in our plans, or at least not this soon. She was gone and I’ve been lost without her.

When childhood friends of mine who own the newspaper in Kentucky offered me the job as editor, I knew it would be impossible to pull up stakes and leave. There were too many considerations, obstacles and much safer options that didn’t involve packing.

It was, however, one of the next chapters in our story Terry and I mused over.

“Lord,” I prayed. “If this is the path you want me to take, you’re going to have to open the doors.”

Don’t pray that unless you mean it. One by one, and sometimes two or three at a time, those doors flew off the hinges.

“Terry,” I said (yes, I still talk to her; it’s more fun than talking to myself all the time), “It looks like I’m moving to Kentucky to solo one of those adventures that WE were going have together.”

She’s coming with me, of course. Her enthusiasm lives on inside me.

So now I’m packing boxes, hoping that I’ll have a place to live when I get there. I’m told there’s an apartment waiting for me. Three choices, in fact. I just haven’t seen any of them. The mystery is part of the adventure.

So now I’m packing. Not only am I discovering how much STUFF we’ve accumulated in such a short time, but I’m stunned by how much of it is useless. And then there’s the boxes I’ve found that are still unopened from when I moved into this old house 30 years ago. It’s like reconnecting with old but unwanted friends. You have nothing in common, there’s no reason to be together, yet here they sit in that back corner where no one ever goes — sort of like whatever that is in the back of the refrigerator. So why am I lugging said box of unwanted goods (unwanted bads?) to another home in another state?

(Actually, I’m not. First, area thrift stores have seen a spike in inventory. And whoever gets the house next might find a few, uh, housewarming gifts.)

One chapter has ended, the next chapter is about to begin — and somewhere in between lies the box with my checkbook, keys and underwear. And possibly my mind.

P.S. “Burt’s Eye View” isn’t going away. I will continue these weekly visits home by long distance. Have chocolate chip cookies ready.

• If you find Cole’s misplaced junk, er, valuables, at a thrift store near you, contact him at burton.w.cole@gmail.com or the Burton W. Cole page on Facebook.