My family origin does not write and my parents left very few letters -- some cards, with a few words and a signature. They always let Hallmark do the talking. And I know so little of what went on in their minds, even now, that I have all the remaining papers. How different will we all be no matter how many emails we write? I ponder this without answer.
Going through my own papers which I have done before and weeding out what I consider unimportant is strange. I am editing my own life. To conform with what I now look back on as important? To reconfigure what was important at another time? To just get rid of clutter? I note that the two boys/men that I wrote the vast majority of love letter to both had ridiculously small handwriting and wrote on odd sized paper. I don't think that I ever saw that before and it is all too evident now.
I will put the letters that I wrote to David with those that he wrote to me. It is strange to be the sole collector of our memories now. We were both such private people that the idea of putting letters together was absurd. Strange, strange. Oh, how strange. As they all have envelops and postmarks, I am sure I could put them in order, but I will leave that for some future cataloguer -- maybe for some romantic grandchild. Then again, they may all crumble before that time. So many were written in pencil -- my own sin. I don't quite know if I should care. I do care on one hand. Intensely. But whether I will even look at all of this stuff again is a question. And I don't remember if I ever thought that I would. I saved. Yes. But.
Another note. I have many of the letters that I wrote to that other boy of my love letters. And I don't remember why. Did he give them back to me when we broke up? I don't think so. Did I claim them when we were living together? I wonder if he was editing his life and was ready to discard them? I have and will have no idea.
Now, on to other things.
Julia and I went up to the Dells to meet a family who has a daughter from China who is also on the spectrum. They were clients of our new lead therapists and she thought we would get along. It was a nice lunch and we had a good time. I see potential friends for us. They live pretty far up north, but visit Madison.
We went to the kitschy, noisy, far too stimulating restaurant called Buffalo Phil's. Meals are delivered via toy trains, video screen are all over, and music is loud. Behind the restaurant part of the building is an arcade with indoor rides, games, and lots of loud music. Julia wasn't her most friendly but she handled herself pretty well. When the noise go to her, she asked for ear plugs and would have put on ear phones if I had thought to bring them. She was able to listen to me, she could eat her lunch, and she even played a few games. Oh, she is so good at the shoot'em up games! And afterwards, we drove back to Madison and went to church.
This was incredible. Behavior, dealing with noise and stimulation, and attention -- And Julia is taking more responsibility for her experience. Fear and the results of trauma continue to lessen.
Oh, how I wish David could see her. I mean, be here and see her. She has come so far this year. The work we've done for years is paying off. It would do his heart good.
And Julia wore pants for the first time since the day we met her in China!! She has worn tights, long johns, and leggins, but no pants. She has worn snow pants but only because she was freezing cold, but no pants. A few weeks ago when we shopped at children's place, I asked her if we could try on pants. I found some that were adjustable and fitted a pair to her. And today, she wore them.
Sunday was an at home day. We went searching for our cat. Didi Chi has been dashing outside the last week or so, but staying pretty close around the house. Two night ago, he dashed out and has not come back. He has no collar and so no one could return him if he was found. Julia is upset, I am numb. I hope we can find him, especially for Julia's sake, but I admit to a feeling of accepting that this will be another loss. That does not feel good to write. Another loss. I feel a bit battered about. I want him to come home, but if he does not, I will miss him and go on. There has been too much moving on.
I want to clutch at the river as it run through my hands. I want the ocean to be still.