Today I'm boxing the remaining children's books -- mostly the ones I remember fondly from my childhood, or which were clearly favorites of Jane's. And I came across the two slim blank books. I had clearly glanced at them at the time of the book sale, and put them back because they had Jane's handwriting in them. This time, I actually took a better look.
They're Jane's high school diaries, circa 1977.
I confess, I find myself weirdly torn. On the one hand, there's a lot of cultural baggage that you never read someone's diary. OTOH, I know my wife: she would have wanted to be remembered, as completely as possible, rather than simply put on an over-simplified pedestal. I'm pretty sure that, this many years on, she'd rather they be fondly read, to flesh out memories of her and better understand who she was and where she came from.
Not today, though. They'll get brought home and put on the shelves, not boxed up, but I suspect that this is going to be a slow process of discovery...