Here in the house every sight my eye lights on is filled with thoughts of Mom. Here is the dining room with its Chinese screen print, the vase I bought her in New York City's Chinatown, the bird prints that go back as far as memory.
In the family room, her books on writing are stacked on the organ bench. I can barely look at them. Those were the books whose ideas we'd talk about for the Museum of the Written Word, some of them I gave to her. Books on Cuneiform script or the Dead Sea Scrolls. The books stand for all of Mom's projects, all the big ideas she had and never quite completed.
At home in Virginia I'm well insulated. Here in Lexington, I'm raw. This is what we must do, I know; this is part of grieving. To look, to see and remember, is as painful as it is necessary.