Spicy Dragons & Dinosaurs

It is muggy and gray outside. Julia did not want to go swimming. We worked on math and then she wrote a thank you card for her newest dinosaur. Our friend, Harriet and Anthony, sent it from England. The stuffed triceratops is now named Sally and living nicely with Lizzy, the purple T-Rex from Florida. I imagine them roaring at each other -- one with a southern Florida accent, one in British. Julia doesn't know this.

She did a very nice job composing the note:

Dear Uncle Anthony and Aunt Harriet,

I can't wait to see you. Thank you for sending Sally dinosaur. Sally is happy. Love, Julia

I did not think she could handle this kind of an assignment before this, but now that I know she can do it, more thank you notes will be on their way. Complete with picture and fairly neat printing. She needed lots of help with the spelling but she was able to compose her own sentences. And looked fairly competent when she was doing it.

My job this week is to pack up the house. It makes sense to begin with the large art but oh, without large picture, a room is bare. I took down art as Julia colored. Julia was immediately sad. I assured her that it will all be back on the walls after the walls are painted. Much like that clean out of the basement, this taking down of the art will give me a new lease, a change in the order. I need it. I hate it. The house will no longer look like it was when David was here. It is becoming more mine alone. This has to happen. I fight it; I want it.

The change is no big deal. How many times have I done this. Moving, painting, getting the floors on Washington Blvd. done. But there is an urge to preserve, as if this is a temple, as if to change is to forget. Is that it? Is some part of me sure that if I move possession around, if I get rid of things I haven't used in years, if I change the color of the walls that I will forget David? Even to write that is absurd.