November 27, 2004

Dear Mr. Bush,

Today we attacked the basement like it was an enemy encampment. Years of accumulated stuff--junk, mostly, when looked at in the light of day instead of the dusk of memory--is now piled high in the dumpster out back, slowly decomposing in the day's non-stop rain.

It's amazing what you carry with you over the years, and even more amazing how things that seemed so important at one point in your life can be parted with so quickly years later. And going through it all piece by piece, it's staggering just how much space it can all take up--in your life and in your head. The amount of brain capacity spent carting around the knowlege of all these things--their weight, their size, their meaning--is matched only by the amount of storage capacity to hold it all.

But today, as Janice lays next to me sneezing a decade's worth of accumulated dust out of her nose and I stop and rub my hands, swollen from carting boxes here and there, we can both rest easily (truly a well-earned nap, wouldn't you say, Mr. Bush?) knowing that below us sits a room that's been emptied of the things of yesterday and is ready to be filled with the dreams of tomorrow.



PS. Happy belated birthday to the girls.


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