The last of Stephanie's old notebooks arrived late last week. They appear to range from 1983 (the year after she graduated high school, and promptly traveled across the country to San Francisco) to 1992 (the last year of her life). I haven't read them carefully yet - I confess I am mostly dreading it. They are mostly reminiscences, either of our time growing up, or our parents, or (later) her increasingly drug-dependent life. The last entries, when she must have been 27 or 28, start to show deteriorating penmanship, but they are all printed in her neat, tidy block letters right up to the end.
We both needed to get away from home.
I have now lived almost twice as long as she lived. I've had a hand in parenting two wonderful kids. Sometimes I think I would like to raise another child, but at 53 it is pretty last in the game for that.
I sometimes think about getting married again, but I've been married twice and based on past experience perhaps I am just not marriage material. But I'm OK with living alone.
This place is quiet and comfortable, but it's really too big for one person, and I will probably downsize within the next year. I need space for myself, my books, and my boxes of old papers, but not for much more than that. I like the old-paper smell coming from the books and notebooks.
Last night I had a dream where I was back in the house where I grew up on Avery Street. It's fragmentary and I don't remember much.