As per all this cleaning.  I'm having to make sacrifices.   I'm usually kind of ruthless about pruning out our stuff.  I dislike clutter; I find it often mirrors an inner sort of clutter.  And I fight that human confusion between things and feelings.  Our things contain neither our reality nor our feelings.  I'm soft about it, especially where my children are concerned, and occasionally find ways clutter and false sentimentality have crept it.   Where is the balance?

Years ago Dear Husband worked on dioramas with the kids.  I kept two, his and Dear Girl's.  (Its possible Dear Boy never finished one.)  They've been living on my towel rack in the master bath, now COMPLETELY covered in fuzz.  Which doesn't really suggest fond happy cheerful bright household memories so much as something closer to Miss Havisham's house.

Bravely, I've decided to photograph them for posterity.  And let them go.  Sort of.  They haven't made it to the recycling.  The are on the front porch, under the eaves, because rain is forecast.  Should they get wet, they would be ruined.  Which would take the matter neatly out of my hands.  Conscious choice much?

And the kill bite.  When we will ever see love notes like this again, written with a podgy careful hand?  

note:  that is not textured construction paper.  those whitish flecks are melted dust.  eww.