Mom’s Keepsakes

Every morning at 5:50am, Mr Coffee beeps three times to alert me that it has finished its scheduled task. Although the coffee maker is downstairs and across the house, it is loud enough to wake me up. I don’t usually get out of bed though. I like to lay drowsily for another ten minutes until my bedroom lamp automatically comes on. Then it is time to get up and start my day.

I walk downstairs, let Tarzan out of his room, and pour myself a cup of coffee before settling into my recliner. I pick up my Bible from the side table and flip it open to whatever reading plan currently serves as my bookmark. I’ve had countless different Bibles over the years, but this is one is my favorite.

I think of it as my mother’s Bible, although I don’t know that she ever read from it. It was a gift she set on her guest room’s bedside table. I found it there and got permission to take it home with me. I have now reached for it a thousand different times. It is a comforting reminder of the conversations we had about our individual walks with God, and the faith she had in my ultimate success when I could only see obstacles.

It has been years since Mom began slipping away from us, and seven months since her passing. It still makes me sad to think about her last days and to face the harsh fact that I can’t share the simple pleasures of life with her anymore. The routines of my daily life now preoccupy most of my thoughts, but certain items release strong waves of memories that sweep me back to the times we shared.

I don’t know why a Bible she never read speaks to me like that. Other unexpected items elicit the same effect. An old-fashioned potato masher and cast-iron skillet take me back to raucous family dinners around a crowded table. A tiny rocking chair ushers flashbacks of childhood innocence. A framed sketch of the small house where she grew up reminds me of simple, relaxed days.

In the coming months, Dad is planning to move and won’t have a place for everything in his new home. He has asked us to let him know what we would like to keep from the “leftovers”. Some of the things have practical value, like the huge, curved 4K television in his living room. Many only have sentimental value. After Dad finishes combing through what he wants to keep, there are still two generations of three separate families who need to pick out the pieces they would like to carry forward.

I am planning a trip to Tennessee to sort through any keepsakes I hope to keep and to ensure that we inventory everything for the benefit of folks who can’t travel. I am simultaneously thankful for the chance and reluctant to begin the exercise.

It is hard to carry an empty box into the last house my parents shared and determine which remnants have an ongoing place in my life. Letting go of things that are associated with my dad is easier than similar items of my mom’s. After all, I still talk to him several times a week and travel to see him when I choose. We are still making memories together.

The walkthrough is difficult because I never know which object will have an emotional memory resting on it, waiting to burst alive with a touch and yank me across time and space to relive emotions from my past. My connections to these pieces are the experiences they represent.

It is painful to move past the items that I don’t want, dismissing as unimportant the decorations, furniture, and utility items that my mom spent a lifetime collecting and organizing. Although I know that she is done with them now, she is still very much alive in my heart. It feels like a betrayal of sorts.

Some items contain memories that do not respond to my touch. They belong to someone else, maybe one of her other children, son/daughters-in-law, or grandchildren. Only the rightful owner can awaken them, making whatever they rest on a treasure for that particular person to cherish.

Mom and Dad spent years filling their home with life and love, so most of the memories sweep us back to happy times. Some don’t though. Each of our minds harbors dark, scary recesses that we would rather avoid. They are recollections of times we learned that the world can be a cruel place, causing the scared child inside to scream and seize control of our thoughts for a moment. The intensity of the feelings is a reminder of all the hurts we still carry.

People say that wars are started when families divide the belongings of one of their fallen. I can understand the hurt feelings that accompany the loss of an item that is someone’s remaining connection to a moment in time. It is impossible to evenly distribute a group of items whose value is different to each person. I will do my best to extend grace.

I hope that my loved ones understand that if I seem selfish, it is because I am unwilling to let go of a past I cannot reclaim. When I am suddenly sad, it is from releasing my mom along with the little things she held dear. If I am unsympathetic to other people, it is because I was unaware of the invisible threads that connect them to their past.

I have been blessed with a rich inheritance, whether the world can measure its value or not. The very best things that my mom possessed are very much alive inside the lives she touched. We can all share a love that was freely given. When I return back to Texas from my travels, I hope my heart will be full to overflowing, regardless of what is in the box in the trunk of my car.