They are lined up in my kitchen, some open, some closed. My sisters are sitting on chairs or standing. We open one tote. Mom's diaries. She kept each year in large three ring binders, and included cards, magazine articles, notes. I look at her spidery writing and miss her all over again. I don't think I ever DON'T think of her and miss her these days. It is all fresh.
1978. My hands open the book and start thumbing through the pages. I just like to see what's in the books, what's in everything. I am committed to touching every single piece of Mom and Dad's lives before I throw it out or give it away. The pages keep zinging by and I can't read any writing. I don't know what I'm doing but I keep leafing. Then my fingers stop and I look down. I read.
"I'll quote from my first letter to Susie; 'I felt sad Wednesday night, saying good-bye to an important role of mine for the last 30 years, being mother of at-home daughters. How lucky that I could have that role, that God gave me five talented and beautiful women to help raise. I'm proud of the job both Dad and I did, and I'm ready to put that energy into other areas now. The whole point of raising children is readying them to meet the world, and still standing by with support and nurture when needed. So you are on the start of your launch into the world, dearest fifth and youngest daughter. My love and my hopes, my support go with you. Most of all, my prayers. The start of the empty nest stage, a new step for us. I love you heaps, Mom'."
How can I move on from that? I hear Mom's voice in my head, telling me this message of support and love. It's not the first time it's happened. She's still here. But she's not in the tote boxes, or the needlepoint pictures, or photos, or knickknacks, or the furniture, or any of the thousands of things still left to sort through. I close the notebook and put it into the 'keep' tote. I'm keeping just one tote box for all of us to go through in the future, preferably over a bottle or two of wine. There are just too many paper things to look at.
Renewed, I look at the six huge totes that have been sitting in my kitchen for the past 6 months, and I look at them with fresh eyes. In just 1/2 hour I have salvaged just a few things others may want. The rest of the totes sit, ready to be taken to the dump. These are just things. They aren't even memories. They can spark memories, yes, that's true- and it's precious for me to be able to read my mom's words, but now that I've read them, I have them. And I don't have to pay storage fees for them, I don't have to dust them, or clean them, or maintain them, or worry about them getting lost or stolen. They're here, in my whole body, every cell, every breath, all around me.
Lighten up. That's what we tell others we think are too serious. I've heard it from my husband. I get intense, competitive, serious, sensitive, overwhelmed, and he comes lightly into my consciousness with a shoulder rub and a squeeze, a whispered reminder of how much he loves me, and I think, yes. That's it. The rest? Garbage. It continues to be swept out of my life.
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