My Mom passed away about a month ago and now the task of combing through a lifetime of memories waits around every corner of my childhood home.
After Dad’s passing several years ago I’d catch my Mom stopping in the places he would occupy just to breathe in his scent, talk to him, and be near him through the things he loved.
A mix of heartache and nostalgia, longing for the days he’d surprise her with a new vase full of flowers, a trinket she’d display proudly on a shelf, or a note he’d penned just for her.
Every piece collected and cared for with sentimental value that far outstripped each object’s worldly worth.
To most, including my brother, nothing more than junk; relics from a bygone era that with the exception of a few treasures will end up on the shelves of secondhand stores or in landfill.
It’s less simple for me, I see Mom and Dad and my youth in these objects and I can’t help but imagine what my children will think ‘someday’ as they sift through the remains of my life.