For N and Soleil the books, three languages and two generations worth, everything packed, labeled and shipped east coast; even the 10th class Hindi text with the hard words underlined, the binding now loose, the poems fragile, ready to skip with the breeze.

For the kid S the stones, particularly the sated green circled tight by the perfect white glittering lazily, and a wish for a life where she gets to wear these. And burgundy lip gloss.

For H, all my music, the thick 45 rpm gramophone records that don’t play any more, velvet gruff bade ghulam khan saab omkarnathji coaxed into thick plastic, the original beatles covers direct from Liverpool or so I thought, Olivia Newton J perfectly airbrushed yes, it IS all water under the bridge; the tapes that work and don’t., opaque smudged tape covers, all the shiny wannabe cd’s I haven’t been able to find the same connect with.

For B, all the brocade she cares for, from the mothers’ collections, don’t know anyone who thoroughly exults in fabric the way she does; any of the glassware. Fluted champagne, delicate wine glasses. Even to drink Fanta out of and throw your head back, laugh.

All other assets to be cleaned out and given off, the little sisters and the missionaries for charity.

Reformat the hard disks. Not a trace to remain.