The school where our son-in-law works bought a 3D-printer so they could print various things around the school that they needed and couldn’t get elsewhere. While we were visiting them for Christmas, he asked my wife and I if there was anything small we would like printed for us. My wife chose a pencil cup that looks great in the multi-colored filament he used to print it. I chose something in black-and-white, for … reasons.
I often read or hear of people who can no longer remember a loved one who has died. The most recent time was yesterday—I’m reading through P. D. James’ Adam Dalgliesh novels, and in the one I’m currently reading, she says, “He could remember that, although he could no longer recall her face”; referring to Dalgliesh’s wife who died in childbirth several years earlier, along with the son she was birthing. That’s always been a mystery to me; it’s been the titular number of years, and I can tell you exactly what Mimi looked like, what she sounded like, the timber of her laugh and I have to stop writing now while I can still see.
Anyway, I have my own little menagerie of elephants on my desk, right in front of her picture. They make me smile. Or tear up. It’s a toss-up, every day.
(I’ve had two friends tell me in the past week that I should get back to writing more. Since that’s 50% of my reading audience, I guess I should write more. Just one reminder: be careful what you wish for.)