It had sat, a perpetual fire hazard I’m sure, in seven or eight boxes in our roof. What to keep? Why?
In the end I couldn’t toss out my mother’s old exercise books filled with her adolescent writing about spirituality, Romantic poetry and the great 18th and 19th century novelists.
This morning I rescued them from the garbage bag where I put them yesterday during the beginning of an ongoing cull of my personal archive.
