Spent part of yesterday with JB, helping him and his brother try to clean out the house they grew up in. It's a daunting task, to be sure, and after a few hours, they felt like they hadn't made a dent at all.
It stands to reason. Years and years can't easily be dismantled in a few hours time. With the discovery of each object or old photograph, there's another story to be told, another chance to bear witness. And, isn't that all we have, really?
Maybe that's why I'm writing. Not to make sense of everything, which seems more and more of an impossibility with the passing of each day.
No, it's not that.
It's simply for the record.
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