"There's so much we should put in storage. It's- he's gone." With a calm weight of finality. "This isn't his house anymore. It belongs to all of you."

No mention of her or Pogo- how would you even write them into a will? There are clauses, she's certain, something that will promise her care of some kind or another but- it isn't a concern. Not with the kids here. Not with this new, fragile ember of something close to self determination. "It should look like a home for you. Not a museum."

A gallery of his projects, his experiments, his hopes and plans that were needed (and he must be so terribly proud of that, wherever he is now) even if only for a moment. Some ought to stay- a crisis averted temporarily does not mean a crisis averted forever. But for a few more days she wants this. Breakfast, her family, and the promise of positive change.

"A real family portrait would look wonderful over the fireplace." And the rest? Boxes in the basement.