Again, quiet. A desire for hibernation.
There are numerous stages to dealing with a crime,
and just when you think you're possibly beginning
to move on with things, Stage #-- shows its face.
I'm in the Homeowner's Insurance Stage at the moment.
In need of receipts (!) for everything stolen, or photographs
proving that I or my sons did indeed possess "X".
No receipt for my late-husband's Seiko watch,
purchased in, oh, 1980, which I recently had refurbished
to give to R. for his college graduation. (And that's just
an example of things for which receipts no longer exist.)
No monetary value attached to the spoon collection
that my mom gave N. before she passed away. And heavens,
no receipt! Silly spoons from places like Sturbridge Village
and Zermatt and Oahu, collected over many years.
Silly even to N., but a treasure nonetheless.
Signed baseballs. Sigh. Stuff. Again, it's all just stuff.
And there is good new, always: R. started a new job
yesterday, at The Athenian Inn, a 100-year-old establishment
in the Pike Place Market. His first task was assisting in
the food prep for the 90th birthday party for the owner.
He's delighted to be working again, and even better:
they offer benefits after 90 days. It's a fresh start
on a new day at a new place. His black eye will fade,
the swelling on his forehead will diminish,
the abrasions will soon show little scarring.
Gratitude, for being safe.
For being alive.