The letter from a San Diego librarian kept reappearing while packing up the old house. I didn’t know what to do with it, or where to put it, so it was circling the house until it was one of the last five things boxed up. There are always those last three boxes of crap that you never know what to do with in your home on a normal daily basis that become the very last things you pack because there’s no category for them.
It was a car full of whining last night as we drove away from the house in Silverlake (some say Silver Lake. I always hung onto the one-word spelling.) Olive was keeping a constant loop of meowing, while Cal gave the occasional mew. Taylor was pretty quiet until he heard me crying, and then he started up with a few whines.
“This is supposed to be a happy thing,” stee reminded us. Continue reading