I just threw out pencil shavings that I'm pretty sure Lev created.
I could write a poem about that if I were a poet. Instead I'm just a grieving mom who within the first fifteen minutes of packing finds herself in the middle of the living room, curled up in a ball sobbing.
At the bottom of the first drawer I chose to sort through was a pile of bereavement cards and a blank journal that was given to me by someone whose son in law died. It was the journal and the moment it was given that pushed me over the edge. Over the edge into a space that I probably had to go.
It's the sorting, not the packing. And I thought this wouldn't be that hard compared to our packing in Sedro.
