Chapter 1b (the other thing)
It is that time of my life; I said that, I know.
Nothing I did was forgotten. And I regret it all. That's the confession of a thousand years. Growing up Catholic, you confess routinely every week, perfunctorily, in preparation for Sunday Mass.
That's the nutshell. And that's what disturbs my sleep, beginning and end.
Chapter 1c (mmm)
He heard.
The garage door lumbered up on her side. They'd shared this two-car garage for 29 years. She'd hit it once recently; one of those things: back-up cameras weren't the nanny-cam-fail-safe they pretended to me.
He'd never hit the garage (yet). His brother-in-law, Larry, had. Once in the early years (they'd reconciled), Larry was so frantic to leave, he forgot his SUV's hatch was up. He dug into the garage. All in all, it was kind of funny. Like having a surprise Road-Runner cartoon playing among relatives.
a kind of thought "I don't really care about garages. I'm not a materialist. I'm not a restorer. I'm not all that proud of the artifacts I've gathered and left behind. Things fall apart. New things come along. Count me in. I admire archivists. I learn from archivists. I'm not one. But maybe someone will benefit."