I admit it! I've been playing with the dollhouse on the dining room table. If this isn't a sure sign of mental decrepitude, I don't know what is. I've rearranged and moved pictures and rugs and people around. It beats lugging heavy furniture in the real world. It is as if I'm playing out reoccurring dreams I have about fixing up an old house, going room to room and the stuff keeps multiplying. This may save me thousands of dollars in therapy.
One of the next to-do items on my list is to get the eight hours of cassette tape interviewing my father transferred to CDs for my kids. I've been meaning to do this for several decades, but I had to find the darn things first. They were sunk in the abyss of the basement but now are found, kind of like saved sinners. I'm looking forward to hearing his voice again. It's the only instance I have. In the olden days people didn't record and video themselves and there were no answering machines. Home films were not my parents' cup of tea. So there are just the still photos and some of their possessions, like driver's licenses. I found my mother's Pan Am travel book with her name inside it. It's touching in it's hope and datedness. The world has changed and countries have disappeared and been created.
Maybe I'll get around to this moment again, but right now nostalgia is what's happening, and I figure it's for some kind of reason. Grief doesn't heal itself all at once, it takes it's time, and bobs up like a float signaling a fish on the line. It would be a shame not to reel that fish in and see what I caught.
nice new arty format !
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