Share your interactive ePaper on all platforms and on your website with our embed function. If I have learned anything in this long life of mine, it is this: In love we find out who we want to be; in.
I come from a quieter generation. We understand the value. They are not lost. Nor are they in a better place. They are gone. As I approach the end of my years, I. My eyes fail me oftenβin the. It is unnerving, this new unreliability in my vision. The past has a clarity I can no longer see in the. I want to imagine there will be peace when I am gone, that I will see all of the people I have loved. He is trying to take care of me, to show how much he loves me in this most difficult of times, and so.
I put up with his controlling ways. What do I care where I die? That is the point, really. It no longer. I am boxing up the Oregon beachside life I settled into nearly fifty years ago. I reach for the hanging handle that controls the attic steps. The stairs unfold from the ceiling like a. The flimsy stairs wobble beneath my feet as I climb into the attic, which smells of must and mold. It is like being in the hold of an old steamship. Wide wooden planks panel the walls; cobwebs turn.
The ceiling is so steeply. I see the rocking chair I used when my grandchildren were young, then an old crib and a rattylooking. Tucked in the corner is what I am looking for: an ancient steamer trunk covered in travel. With effort, I drag the heavy trunk to the center of the attic, directly beneath the hanging light.
The top tray is full of baby memorabilia. The mementos in the bottom of the trunk are in a messy pile: several faded leather-bound journals; a.
