After death

I was writing to a friend who just lost her ex-husband to pancreatic cancer.  They were close, and she nursed him in his final days.  She's now packing up his house, and she was musing about how sad it is to see all his things, and to think these, his ashes, and memories are all that are left of the man.

I remembered packing up my mother's things after her death in '97.  She left me some beautiful rugs, prints, and an exquisite bolt of heavy Chinese satin which I want to make a screen out of someday.

I realized that I hardly even notice these things anymore, and I don't think of their source when I do.  I don't automatically think of my mother when I see them.  But, I wrote to my friend, memories of my mother come serendipitously every day.  They are clear, insistent, and precious, almost always demanding reflection on their meaning. 

I remember when I was as tender as my friend now is, standing in my mother's empty apartment and thinking how sad it was that she was reduced to boxes and suitcases of things plus an urn of ashes.  But I didn't bargain on the memories.  It sounds corny, but the memories - because they demand processing - mean that my mother is actively with me in some way almost daily.  I didn't know then, in '97, that she would linger in my life this way.  I thought her things were her legacy and link, that they were what would remind me of her.  It's been a wonderful surprise to learn otherwise.      

Comments

[Tom C]

I agree totally. The memories of my father who died 5 years ago are very strong. I visited my parents grave last week, and whereas two or three years ago I found it a moving experience, this time I felt "they've gone" and held nothing for me.

[Cowtown Pattie]

Out of the blue, something will make me think of my dad and I laugh. His way of letting me know he is not so far away.

I do regret opportunities lost to tell him how much I loved him, though. He probably knew...

[Ronni Bennett]

I agree, ML, but I've found for me that "things" are important reminders too. When I packed up my mother's house after her death, I kept a little footstool because she's made the needlepoint cover. I don't even much like it, but I use it anyway because it was hers and in my daily wanderings around the house, when it catches my eye, there's a brief moment of thinking of mom.

It's kind of like pieces of jewelry that were gifts. A pair of gold hoop earrings - for the couple of seconds it takes to put them on, I think of Donna who gave them to me. I have a Nantucket basket my friend Heather gave me and when I drop change into, for a brief moment, she comes to mind. Also - those silly, wonderful Texas earrings Cowtown Pattie sent me :-)

But like you, when I was packing up my mother's apartment, I was struck by how little there was of a long life well lived. But it's the memories, often showing up unbidden, that really count.

[Dan]

I understand how your friend feels, as I lost my wife, Gee, to pancreatic cancer as well. She was 33 when she passed away. We had been married for seven months and seven days. I've written quite a bit about My Life with Gee and you can read it here.