The sheets had dried outside and were cold when I brought them in. I made the bed and lay down on top for a moment, intending only to straighten a fold under my shoulder. A foolish excuse, since no one was monitoring my afternoon. The cotton felt pleasantly rough against my forearm, and with my eyes shut I could still smell the outdoor air in it. Dewey arrived and settled against my legs, effectively closing the matter of getting up. I wasn't asleep, though I may have missed a little of the radio. When I sat up the room was brighter than I'd expected. My eyes had enjoyed having nothing to read for half an hour.

Cataloguing my father's books was supposed to be a matter of titles, dates and the notes he left in the margins. Instead I keep stopping to decide what he meant by a small question mark beside an otherwise unremarkable sentence. There is no way to look that up, which is inconvenient for my preferred method of living. I have started separating what I can establish from what I merely suspect. The second list is longer and more interesting, but I don't want my great-niece to inherit my guesses labelled as his opinions. I did very little actual cataloguing this afternoon. Three books, one argument with a dead history teacher, and no settled verdict.

My great-niece wrote that she hadn't liked one of the books I sent, and gave me three rather good reasons. I was delighted by the letter and offended on behalf of the book, in approximately equal measure. There was a time when she would have thanked me for anything with a cover. I miss that easy welcome a little, while being very pleased that she trusts me enough to disagree. I began a reply defending the ending, then left it on the desk. Her letter wasn't a request for correction. I may still explain why the ending pleased me, but first I want to ask what she has chosen for herself. That is the part I am genuinely eager to hear.