And what of all the baby toys I’d carefully cleaned and put away?
What of the tiny clothes I’d washed and folded and labeled by age in large bags.
What of the car seat and play mat and maternity clothes?
What of Audrey’s books- “Just Me and My Dad,” and “Daddy Cuddles?” And the Korean ones she keeps asking me to read.
What of husband and wife and children and home? Of tradition and shared memory and laughter and music?
Clothes stay in bags in the closet, books go unread, your cello collects dust.
It is all