I just finished packing up the attic. Excellent behind and leg workout, bad for the gymnast’s knee. I found a blow up haunted house I bought years ago for my children. I know it still works because I plugged it in and scared the hell out of the dogs when I KonMari’d the house in January. The new family that’s moving in my, now their home has a fifteen-month-old little girl who when she first saw the house claimed the “pink room,” my daughter’s room. I told Lily that if she looked in the closet, she would see a hand print that we made of my daughter’s hand in an Imodium A-D, mint green with a Barbie shoe hot pink background. We never changed it even though we painted her room several times during the close to twenty years we lived here. I’m leaving the blow up haunted house for Lily for her first Halloween in her new home that assuredly, like my children, she will enjoy for many, many years. I’m also leaving the handprint because even though it will eventually be painted over, the memory of the seven-year-old girl who romped in her brand new back yard with her then only brother in 1998 will remain forever.