My Mom has been in an assisted-living facility for something like six months now -- a nice one, very apartment-like, as much independence available as people can handle and help if needed (food options range from a dining hall to cooking in a nice little kitchen in your rooms to meals brought to you, for example).
Meanwhile, she's had a house full of stuff, two lifetime's accumulation, hers and my late father's, plus whatever the three kids had abandoned. Clearly, the paid-off house needed to be turned into money, but the things in it-- They needed to be turned into a much smaller bundle, memories distilled down, the silly decorated-brick bookends my sister made at age 12 going to Mom's new place, the massive, multi-level Victorian-style iron plant stand I gave her a decade ago leaving with me, Dad's assorted tools to my brother, sewing items culled and sorted -- some staying with Mom, some to granddaughters (Sis and I having accumulated our sewing tools and supplies ages ago). And so on, and on and on, with the bulk of the work falling to my siblings, my own employment being a bit short on days off just now.
Even so, it is surprisingly affecting and I found myself misty-eyed and/or morose several times yesterday, remembering earlier times. That house was never my home, but it was a refuge a couple of times, once for several months between jobs, and later after I broke my knee and the doctors wouldn't let me go home alone until I was out of the leg-immobilizer.
And today, a little more to do up there. Then I'll leave my set of keys and.... No more. My brother and the new owners are closing the sale Tuesday. It's an ending of sorts and a hard lesson to learn: it all comes down to this.
T. R. MCELROY'S STREAMLINED TELEGRAPH KEYS
1 year ago