My sister and I continue to wade through the memories of our childhood as we try to determine what we should keep, what we should sell, and what needs to be donated. It is an emotionally difficult process. Each time we come across some innocuous item that holds a precious memory, our hearts break all over again leaving us to try and regain composure so we can focus on the task at hand.
Some of the things that I found in my mother's house just leave me speechless. For example, we found at least fifteen space heaters that are still in their original boxes and 10 new crock pots that sat gathering dust.. We found several dutch ovens, still in boxes, as well as boxes of dishes, and boxes upon boxes of sewing material.
Then there are the other things. The things that bring back memories. On our last trip to her house, my sister took a new dutch oven home while the other five were tagged for a garage sale. This evening I received a call and my sister was crying. "Remember that Dutch Oven I brought back?" I acknowledged that I did remember it. "Well," she said, "I opened the box and it was full of dad's old fishing stuff. I saw it and just started to cry. This is so hard!"
The memories in that house are everywhere and each of us have had a moment or two where the emotions are so strong that we can't hold back tears. I am not usually an emotional person so I thought I was prepared for this until I went into the bedroom at the top of the stairs. It is a large room with lots of windows and a beautiful view of the mountains in the distance. When I was young, I would go into that room and sit in front of the windows to watch the sun go down, read a book, write, or sketch. When I was seeking solace from hurt feelings or a broken heart I could be found in front of that window. It was also where I would wait for my dates to arrive since the view allowed me to see their cars drive up the street to my house. The room was my mother's room but when she was teaching or at a some meeting or another I would go to my spot in front of the window. This room had the essence of my mother, which I found comforting, combined with the wonderful view and I would always find solace there. Recently I walked into that room for the first time in many years and my eyes gravitated to the same view I had always sought. Without conscious thought, I automatically looked around for my favorite chair and I felt my stomach tighten when I realized that the view is the same but too much time had passed since I had come to see it. The chair was no longer there. In that moment, I experienced a sense of loss that was so strong it was almost too overwhelming to bear. I realized that I had taken my favorite corner for granted because I just assumed it would always be there. The sadness of knowing that this was the last time I would ever experience that view cannot be put into words. Suddenly I wanted nothing more than to be alone so I could sit in front of that window to watch a sunset just one more time as my mother played the piano in the family room below. The realization that those moments are gone forever was like a physical pain.
When my dad passed away, it was sudden. There was no opportunity for goodbye and I was just devastated. So I am grateful for the opportunity to become re-acquainted with my mother and to develop a good relationship with her again. Yet, today my mother is often only a shadow of the woman I have always known because we are forced to watch helplessly as she continues to fade while the Alzheimer's does it's damage. Once again, my heart is broken and I am devastated. I sometimes wonder what is worse, to lose someone suddenly or to watch them slowly fade a little more each day as we are left to sift through the precious memories of the past. It is so sad when I realize that is the last glimpse I may ever have of my childhood as the imprint of my parents lives are inventoried and categorized into keep, donate, and sell piles.
Loss is inevitable, yet we humans continue to take so much for granted. I have lived on my own for far too long to be homesick, yet here I am ...missing home. I miss my favorite window and I miss my father. As imperfect as my relationship with my mother was, I miss my mom as she used to be. I miss my old dog, my old cat, my old room, the tree in the backyard with the table that sat under it and the many conversations I had with my dad at that table. I miss the sound of my mother playing the piano, the small town camaraderie, and the smell of my mother's lilac bush during the warmer months. I miss the summer nights when my friends and I would sit on the front steps at my house to talk and stargaze long into the night knowing that my parents were only a shout away.
Each memory is a treasure and, as difficult as this is, I feel blessed. This has been an opportunity to see the remnants of my youth one last time.
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