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Show 55 labelled with the name of Luel's kid. He opens one or two at random: they are wildly filled like the insides of her drawers had been, with all the minutiae and little sentimental objects that compose a life, and which might conceivably be passed on. The cartons are ready, he sees, to be removed to other houses, and then the great parental house, except for the barest essentials, will be almost entirely empty. He goes fast, then: he sorts fearfully through the contents of the desk, the dresser, the drawers in her little room. He finds her calendar: there are no dates on it, no committee meetings scheduled, or bridge tournaments, or even garden shows, beyond the following month. He finds a pile of correspondence from various far-flung friends, all recently arrived, all bidding farewell in a variety of styles and penmanships and stationery. Some of the responses are more awkward and uncertain, some easeful and understanding. New letters arrive in the mail; he opens one: it is odd Anny how the news that you're about to bring your life to an end disturbs me and yet causes me this funny satisfied joy i think i am much too much afraid of death even now remember I am a year older than you Anny but it does make me remember all those brilliant days when we hiked in the Tetons and the Rockies and the huge blisters and the professional size of the mosquitoes but do you also remember Anny lying out there under all those stars you used to always talk about the meaning of |