Organizing

I move through the house, collecting her things.

I cry over the little sun hat I bought for her, still in its tags. Her scalp, skin photosensitive and hair just beginning to grow back, will never see the sun now.

I remember to grab her little tin cup from the bathroom, the initial "M" painted in red on the bottom.

Cards still arriving at the house, no longer to her, but still about her.

What about her bag of cars, revealed in a suitcase sitting on my floor for months? All won in hospital bingo, they were a staple for hospital stays. To be paired with the road map floor mat, of course. I cry because the cars were *hers*, but they weren't super special in of themselves. I add them to the girls' cars.

As I listen to a podcast and process new revelations about my feelings, I think about posting them to Facebook. But there's only so much I want to harass Facebook with.

And so, I consider a blog.

I don't need to write another book about suffering. There's plenty of those.

But as I collect her things, maybe I should also be collecting her memories. Organizing them. Putting them in one location.

You don't need to read this. This is for me. But feel free to observe.