My parents passed
from our family separated by just a few weeks.
They were the bookends to eight children – the strength that held us
together. The loss was sudden, unexpected
and painful. Though I was well past middle age, I felt like an acrobat without
a safety net – an orphan, and I drifted through the funeral like a ground mist
that’s forgotten once the sun shines again.
My father had
appointed my youngest brother and I as co-executors, and I found no personal
financial or legal experience can prepare you for dealing with some else’s
estate. Doubts and questions plagued me
even with my father’s detailed Last Will and Testament. One area not addressed specifically was the
household contents. With room for eight
children, my parents’ home was a sprawling three floors filled to the brim with
sixty years of marital accumulation. The
Will placed a limit of sixty days for the beneficiaries to outline a plan of
dispersal or the household contents would be sold and the proceeds divided
equally.
So, my siblings and
I held a meeting, and we did come to an amicable consensus. Cars, jewelry, furniture and objects d’art left
my parents home first. My brothers and
sisters returned the next weekend for selections from my father’s expansive
library of books, music and movies. There
was even interest in some of my mother’s clothing. Yet, when everyone had exhausted their
choices, every room was still filled with stuff. An estate sale and a large dumpster helped,
and soon the contents of the house dwindled.
When we were done the house was empty save one bedroom of memorabilia
that no one wanted. Yet, discarding the
items seemed like an act of disloyalty.
Alone, I packed
those last items in boxes. My father’s
hunting trophies, plaques and commendations from years of employment, framed
thank you letters from clubs and charitable organizations were all packed in
boxes that overflowed with my father’s life.
There was nothing of my mother here in this room.
Her life had been
the recipe box that I had claimed as my own, the turkey platter claimed by
sister #4 and the casserole dish claimed by sister #7. Still, I was sad there was nothing of my
mother’s life in that last room; no trophy, not one citation.
When I arrived
home, I carried the boxes to the basement for storage, pending a future
decision on their fate. A curious wooden
box caught my eye. The word Memories was carved across the top. I set the box on my dresser where it remained
silent for the next few months. I dusted
it when I cleaned, dressed around it before going to work and slept in the same
room with it each night. My curiosity never overcame my grief, so the box
remained closed.
Months later, it
was done. My parents’ house was sold to
a young couple, and I pictured their children rolling down the hill in the
backyard or having Christmas dinner in the dining room as we had done. Life does go on. The probate taxes were paid, the estate was
closed and my grief was soon replaced by happy memories.
I opened the Memory
box. At first, I wished I hadn’t. Inside were letters written by a plaintive
seventeen year old girl to her boyfriend who was vacationing in Michigan. Postmarked through August of 1949, she had
written everyday to my father. It was strange reading my mother’s longing words. Her immature passion filled each page, and it
was difficult to reconcile my competent mother with this childish banter. After reading, I replaced each letter in the
Memories box and I wondered. Her letters
evidenced that my father had written to her, but his letters were not
saved. Yet, he had saved every one of
her letters in a special box marked, Memories, as a keepsake. Then I thought, this was my mother’s trophy –
sixty years of my father’s love and devotion saved in a box marked – Memories.
