My Mother's Closet

One chest of drawers.

One rack of clothes.

That's all I manage today. The other two racks and numerous bathroom drawers will have to come later. The delay may make it harder, I don't know. I don't know how people can go in and do this, sort through the things of their loved ones in the days immediately after. I recall when my grandmother passed away, my aunts and my father went in and cleared the two bedroom unit my grandparents lived in. Tough. Tough to see a house full of memories reduced to an empty container, devoid of all personality and life.

My mother passed away in November. My father hasn't really been in a rush to pare down my mother's things. He wanted to keep the closet of clothes so he wouldn't feel so alone. Like my mother could come back if perhaps we wished hard enough. Alas, we all knew better.

But time moves on, people move on. My dad is slowly preparing to sell the house. So much needs to be done. The closet is definitely a daunting task. Another step on this journey.

[Aside:
The room where my mother slept still smells like my mother.

I haven't especially noticed that until today. Before when I have gone in, it just seemed frightfully empty and sterile. So painfully empty. Today is smells like she did when I would come to take care of her. Not necessarily a pleasant smell. It was a smell of cancer mixed with the earthy products my mother used to try to keep her in the best of shape. I haven't touched those products yet, they are still by the bedside. Perhaps the next trip I will clear some of those...]

The dresser was much easier. The things that were personal needed to be thrown away. They are the things people don't share. The rack was more difficult. There were nice dress blouses to ratty t-shirts. Each piece I picked up I had to decide "how does this look? does it have stains? is it too pilled? how old is this?" I had three bags going: things to keep because I will use them, things that someone else would appreciate and use, and things that are now trash. That was the tough part: trash. So many items I could clearly see my mother wearing because she did all the time. Hell, I could probably dig out a dozen pictures of her wearing these old ratty things because she loved them. Several of the items she had were things from my sister and I. Things that no longer fit us, or things we would no longer wear. My mother was frugal and would save them and use them if she could. There were shirts from the days of my sister and I in junior high, high school and college. (And that was a minimum of 15 years ago.) Yet, she kept them. She loved them and now they are trash. No one else will ever love them like that again.

(Trash? It's not trash! It's my mother!)

No... I know better. these things are not my mother. The comforting aspect is that I can hear her voice, clear as day, in my head. "[~L], these are just things." I can see them for that. It's hard, but I can. That pack rat part of me wants to keep these things, to remember.... Things don't hold memories. THINGS DON'T HOLD MEMORIES.

(breathe)
(believe)
(breathe)
(believe)

(breathe)

One dresser, one rack. That's all I can do.

Today.