The eldest child has flown the nest. Alas, she's taken her toothbrush (and half of everything else she found in the bathroom closet) to live in a charming carriage-house-y, loft-like abode about half a mile east of here.
Tonight we shopped for sundry items needed for her bohemian existence.
A colander. A kitchen knife. Peanut butter. Angel hair pasta. A broom.
Her brother asks, "Do you have plans for her room?"
"Yes," I say. "It will remain a shrine."
"Yeah right," he snorts.