CAN’T TAKE IT WITH YOU
My mother’s death was not unexpected. The oncologist’s prediction was remarkably precise. But what did surprise me was the ease with which she let go of the chattels of her life.
I drove her from hospital to hospice via her home, where I had expected her to engage in a tearful extended farewell to every object. But she didn’t even go inside. She wandered in the garden as I gathered up the few items she asked me to fetch – clothing, mainly; nothing of sentimental value, except a Bible. Then she got back in the car and said, “Let’s go.”
The tough part started when my brothers and I had to clean out her house. Hundreds of objects, many familiar from my childhood – who remembers Marmite jars made of milk-white glass? – and virtually none of any intrinsic value, had to be sorted and sold or dumped.
It should have been enough of a spur to engage, after a suitable period of recovery, in getting my own house in order. But more than 18 years elapsed before I was finally spurred to do a little “death cleaning” of my own. The impetus came when, having hired a painter to redo my study, I removed every last item from the room.
Renovation prompted re-evaluation. I wasn’t going to go all Marie Kondo on
