Her house was always clean, with everything put away out of sight. She hated anyone taking anything out and not putting it right back where it belonged. Right now, the contents of her bedroom closet are scattered on her bed to be sorted out. The contents of the kitchen drawers and cabinets are in boxes on the floor, and the china cabinet contains only those things with no sentimental value. Her beloved Christmas decorations, many of them I gave her, lie on the dining room table or on the couch in the living room waiting to be boxed or sold. When I left this afternoon, I could almost hear her admonishing me to put it all back when I was done.
The walls are becoming bare, bereft of the paintings I did for her or a friend had done for her. The antique clock I bought her is in the back seat of my car. So is the fern stand I got at an auction down the street. Boxes of seashells we gathered when I was little wait by the door to be loaded later. A box of kitchen gadgets, six pairs of scissors, and better knives than mine is in the very back of the car. Vintage mixing bowls and old silver pieces wait on the counter to be boxed. The quilts my grandmothers made and that kept me warm when I was a child are waiting on the "big" bed in the guest room.
She was a very private person, really, even with me, especially with me. As she got older and more dependent, she seemed to want to withhold some of herself in order to feel there was something remaining over which she had some control. Her finances were of particular concern. Now, here I am finding bags and boxes full of old receipts, bank books, statements and forms. If I wanted, I could follow her life for the last 15 years or so. She was that thorough. The bags and boxes may be scattered around the house, but the contents of each are all in order from January to December of every year.
Because she was housebound by choice, embarrassed that someone might see her infirmities, she spent a great deal of time watching television. Her favorite station was HSN. She'd order face creams and beauty potions for skin that needed neither. Right up until near her last breath, her skin was porcelain, with a natural blush. Only during the last moments did the color drain away and the bluish cast of cyanosis take over. I've found boxes of the produts hidden away in drawers, in the tops of closets, in the backs of cupboards. She hid them from me because I had stupidly told her she didn't need them when actually she did. She needed the friendly voice on the telephone telling her that these concoctions would bring back the dewy beauty of youth. If she was still beautiful, then she was also still young. Her infirmities would vanish, and she could go on like they never happened. She was always asking, "Who would have ever thought this would happen to me?" I seriously think that she felt she was immune to disease and disability because she was good, beautiful, and determined.
I have collected all that bottled hope, much of it unopened, and put it out for other women to
pick over and buy. My mother would be appalled.
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