It gets harder to de-sad each time.

The fight is waning inside me. Or perhaps it is just evolving.

They came and took away all of the old, dear ones today. Tombs that I have loved and handled and looked through and showed with white gloved pride to wide eyed semi-circles of students as they realized what an awesome history had come before this moment in their lives. The realization that they were a part of a greater whole.

The storytelling old ones fell silent as they were all boxed up and taken to the moving van backed up to the loading dock. They will all be sold . . . in lots.

No one understands why I keep frowning these days.
It is because I will not cry for these people. Crying is a precious and sacred thing and I will only give it to someone worthy. They are not worthy.

I did not cry today when they took away all of the rare books.
Just as I did not cry when they took away all of the artwork, and
I did not cry when they took away all of the precious artifacts, and
I did not cry when they took away the people who had been here so long.

I am a survivor.
I loved my mother. I cried for her.