While I was grabbing things from her desk, I took her dictionary and her Swingline 747 stapler. We would often consult her dictionary and make gentlemen bets on what the meaning of words were, even though none of us were gentlemen.

I took the dictionary even though I get all my definitional needs from an online source now. I took the stapler because it's hard to come across one made of metal. Both would have found their way to undeserving hands.

I felt a little remorse filing away her files. It was not unlike when I untied a knot my father tied, he had been dead for three years. I felt like I erased a little of what remained. I remember saying "Goodbye, dad." and when I had picked up the files I said "Goodbye, Joan."

Often it just takes one generation to forget. One story not retold. One thing learned not taught.

"It's all here. Everything marked. Everything 'membered."

It merely takes one quiet storyteller for things to vanish.