I visited Mom’s house in Miami Beach for quite likely the last time yesterday. I tried my best to feel properly sentimental, especially when the soon-to-be new owners were there visiting (they want all the stuff in the house as well! bless them!). But it was never really my house — bought when I was married, and had a kid already. No childhood memories of mine there. Childhood memories, yes, of the clubhouse on the island, but the memories are pretty securely lodged in my brain, and so no real necessity of visiting the Actual Place.
Buck has gone there this morning for the final drilling-open of the safes to make sure there is nothing important left. He’ll bring back Dad’s gold-headed putter. Why my Dad had a gold-headed putter, I don’t know. It rather fit his personality, but beyond that, I can’t explain or imagine.
Time to head out to the News Café for breakfast. I love the noise and tangle of South Beach. I might even make it over the small dunelet to see the ocean that I grew up with as a child. But I don’t feel such a great need for the ocean right now. The ocean and I know each other pretty well by now.
white pebble 