Two weeks following my last letter, I received one from Andrew Cordell, Esq. requesting a meeting. I took a week off. The meeting apprised me of Ginn’s death. She had previously made arrangements for no funeral and a quiet burial. I fervently wished I had broached the subject, but I had thought there were more years, more summers, more time. As I wiped my tears (tears that seemed to have no end to them), Mr. Cordell further informed me that I was the single recipient of all of Ginn’s earthly possessions. Questions swirled in my mind; questions Mr. Cordell could not answer. I signed papers he placed in front of me with barely a glance.

I’d been to Ginn’s house the past summer, of course, but this time as I crossed the threshold, I felt as I had many years before and almost expected her to peek her head out of the kitchen door with two cookies in her hand. At first I just sat at the kitchen table imagining her sitting there across from me. At last I shook myself, and began the slow process of sorting through her things. It appeared to me that she had rid herself of some things over the years, and my task wasn’t at all overwhelming. I was able to bag and box much of it within two days. I set aside a few things I recalled from my childhood; mementos of happy days.

In the evenings, I made myself a glass of lemonade and sat out on her front porch swing, reminiscing of our time together and of our conversations varying wildly from fire engines to flowers, Harpo Marx to heaven; then later conversations with so much talk of heaven; in Ginn’s words, “the restored Eden”. It gave me some comfort thinking about her exploring the truly beautiful and important things there.

I slept in her bed at night. Perhaps to some it might seem morbid. To me, it felt just right. In fact, one night I dreamed she was standing next to it, smiling at me and I awoke with tears on my face.

The day after that dream, I sorted through her desk drawers and came upon a very large envelope full of legal documents; with her name and also – surprisingly – with my name. As I read through the papers, it appeared that her parents had gotten over their disappointment of her pursuing work in the entertainment industry and left her the family wealth: stocks, bonds, several bank accounts (one overseas), and a house on the Cape. It felt a bit overwhelming and I began to understand why she embraced a common life.

I was done, actually; done with sorting and boxing and bagging, with going through the things from a life filled with experiences and stories and homespun philosophy. And as I sat on the porch swing wondering what to do with her furniture, it occurred to me I could stay. I’d missed this little town when we had moved. My eyes roamed over the house and yard (and, yes, profusion of flowers) and I thought how I would prefer a house to my apartment. I went back inside and penned my resignation that night.

The day after, I cleaned the house to within an inch of its existence. That’s when I discovered a small cubby hole in the hallway by Ginn’s bedroom. A memory tugged. Yes! I recalled loving it when I was three years old. Ginn had laughed, and said maybe I could explore it another day. But I never did. And later we’d moved. I smiled to myself at the thought it took so many years to “explore” the little thing. It was dark – I would need a flashlight – but I reached in and knocked over something inside. Tinny.

Having retrieved a flashlight, I pulled out a 7 inch cylinder. Ah! Inside were two surprisingly well-preserved sugar cookies. Dear old Ginn. And a cigar. Smoking it would’ve probably made me sick, but I resolved to keep it on display. It deserved the remembering.

There were rolled up papers, too, tied with a velvet ribbon that reminded me of the velvet ropes in a movie theater. I unrolled them and my breath caught. They were adoption papers along with a birth certificate and additional information. Ginn was listed as the mother. There was no name for the father. My parents’ names were listed as the adoptive parents. And – I read it over once, twice, ten times – The birth date was mine.

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