I enjoyed his talks, sitting, cozy and comfy, on his lap. His big, rough calloused hands would hug me, stroke my belly, squeeze me close. I loved my P...ppa, and I could tell, even if he never told me, that he loved me too.Poppa was winding the old clock, set high on a shelf on the wall opposite his upholstered chair. He turned and smiled, just a little smile, as I entered his room. Yeah, his room. It smelled of his evening tobacco, his sweat, his... Oh, I don't know, 'cept this was Poppa's. Furthermore, with their delivery of the package to its rightful owner, the firm's obligation to any involved party was now ended.The letter raised far more questions than it answered. Who wrote the diary and when? Who donated it to the museum and how were they related to me? What museum would not want an original document from probably the 19th century, and how could a diary possibly be 'inappropriate for either display or study'?The best place to start answering these questions it seemed was. More

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