The only thing I know for sure

I’d like to take a break from writing about Agnes and write a little bit about myself.

Yesterday the porcelain pugs arrived in the mail, all seven of them. Two were destroyed in the mail – no legs and the ears were cut off. I wept, thinking how much Mark loved those pugs. My partner had wanted to sell Mark’s bequest. He said they’d easily fetch a thousand on eBay, they were Dresden antiques, but it looks like the pugs will have to be glued back together and hidden in a drawer somewhere.

Lots of treasures are hidden in drawers these days. My parents’ Wedgewood. We got that when we closed up Mom and Dad’s house back in July. And then Mark died in August, now we have his china, too. Plus thirty-five paintings I’ll be bringing down from New York, now that the appraiser has finished her job. Too bad I have all these inheritances. I’d much rather Mark were still alive, but I can’t complain. He was 92, after all. But my parents – hey, at least they're alive, even though Mom’s disabled and Dad has Alzheimer’s.

It all seems to happen at once, doesn’t it?

Come to think of it, I’ll go back to writing about Agnes Limerick. Her world of fiction – mine – is the only thing I know for sure.