As I walk through my home, the one I make with my children, there
are ghosts everywhere--reminders of the person I used to be. My grandmother's
dining room table, bought when I was in eighth grade, just before Christmas, was
inherited after her death. The children use it to color pictures and draw
worlds culled from their imaginations. The chairs, already reupholstered once,
wear the various stains a life with children dictates, and the wood is wearing
down and uneven.
