I've been working the past 2 weekends, with much help from my dear friend Paula, on my husband Paul's 'office', the room in our apartment where he once upon a time did work, file, ship, write, play solitaire, edit, and lay out Crawdaddy Magazine....
Paul hasn't asked about, nor stepped foot in that room for over 4 years, and he's 3 years now in the nursing home. I think it's time to make it my own room. But man, ...how hard it is to process all those piles of things. Process meaning: throw out, box, mail out to others. And then there are the things you don't really want to find, (not to mention the 7 year old bags of weed).
A random page, torn from a journal, dated Feb. 1, 2006 Paul wrote: " I'm feeling on the edge of some kind of madness-
unable to find J.L. tapes/cd's- again!
playing solitaire compulsively--
unsure what to do each day, each moment."
Very difficult to move through this stuff. So many things. A life that was lived. Who am I to make the decision to keep or to purge?
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At any rate, we visited Paul at his nursing home Sunday....here's the flip book version.