I'd been at it all day, cleaning out rotting sweaters, stained saucers, boxes and boxes of light bulbs, mildewed luggage and finally, tonight, I was angry at my mom for dying and leaving what seems such an impossible mess. Then I felt bad for being angry when she had been so sick and was no longer here. Just at that point, in excavating the darkest, stickiest, stinkiest corner, the clean, colorful cosmetic bags started to appear. A shiny plastic yellow one, a black one, a tweedy brown one with turquoise trim, a striped one, a swimming-pool blue one, one of bright red satin and gauze, each hiding in its original department store bag.

Then came a bag with a shoe box and a store receipt. In it was a pair of black suede ankle boots that looked as though they'd never been taken out after purchase. Yesterday, I was feeling wistful about some black suede ankle boots I once had.

These fit just fine.

After bags of hospital leftovers of gauze pads, tape, and baby shampoo, after the cosmetic bags and the shoes, there was a small, steel, index card box, the top scarred and caked with mouse droppings. I gingerly lifted it, brought it into the light and opened it. Full of letters and photos from me to my parents over twenty years ago, they report on the arrival of our adopted son and his first two years with us, followed by the arrival of our second son. Each photo looks clear and bright, as though just printed, as though love is a surprise, always new and alive...