Friday, December 27, 2019

Contemplations on Mortality

Fiorella made a list and counted it twice to find out who was naughty and who was nice, and she discovered she'd received only twenty-eight Christmas cards this year.
     When Fio was a child, she remembers watching her mother sitting at the desk for days, signing cards and addressing envelopes, with hand-written letters often included. But the times, they are a-changing, and your Fio is probably the last of the Christmas card dinosaurs.
     Of course, a major reason Fiorella likes sending out cards is that she gets a kick out of designing them. She also likes including her own poetry, and this year's sonnet was one of the best ever--if anyone takes the time to read it.
Elder Son and his wife are doing a great job clearing things out of the house in order to get it ready to sell, which Fio really appreciates as she stands there admiringly on the sidelines. Husband was not just a reader, but a collector, and the house has lifted itself up at least a foot now that his books are on their way to Half Price. Fio had hoped she could get some $$$ out of them, but Son consulted several markets, and old books are a dime a dozen now. What IS selling are the yard and garden tools--about $100 so far.
All of this makes Fio wonder about what will happen to her own treasures, her art, musical compositions, and writing. All her blogs, of course, have gone on line, but will that be the end of them? What about her books and booklets? And her poetry ? And her short stories? And her art? And her musical compositions? Will they all end up in a dustbin like most of the books Husband used to read?


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