A few days ago, I sat in a room in a nursing home with my mother, sorting through boxes of her belongings, from books on theology to a black lace merry widow corset.
When you move into one room, you’re quickly forced to shed about 95% of the belongings that have defined you, and your taste, your memories and history. If, as many of us do, we acquire and keep objects and clothes and shoes and accessories, we choose and keep them for a reason, maybe several.
Often reasons quite unknown to anyone else.
Everything I pulled out for our mutual decision making made me wonder — who is this woman?
At least she’s still alive and we had a chance to make those decisions, however wrenching, together.
I learned more about my Mom in those four hours than in the past, very private, four decades as we went through it all:
Those impossibly soft red leather Cossack-style boots? (That didn’t — damn! — fit me.) Bought in London. She once tucked a pack of cigarettes into the the top of one.
That black and white Marimekko print gown? Worn to the open house when she moved into her Toronto home 20 years ago.
The tie-dyed Indian cotton dress? She designed it while traveling there.
That corset? My mom was one confident hottie! I wish I had the nerve, and the figure, to rock a black lace Merry Widow…
The battered paperback book by Dom Helder Camara, a Brazilian liberation theologist? Autographed to her. Good thing I hadn’t tossed it in our purging.
Not to mention love letters, recent ones, from Australia, New York and beyond. Good work, Mom!
I fly home to New York in two days, with a new, painful and acute sense of how much stuff I own, and how much if it I have to get rid of, now! I cannot imagine my sweetie having to go through it, box by box, trunk by trunk, and make any sense of it without me there: photos, letters, books.
Why am I clinging to it?
Am I still me without it?
Have you ever had to sort, purge and toss out a lot of your stuff? Or someone else’s?
What was it like?