August 10, 2019My project of the summer became clearing out my mother and late stepfather's house. Jack used to say he didn't know how I would ever manage to dispose of their worldly possessions. Knowing he had a propensity to never remove anything from his house hasn't made my job easier. It's taken months, but the end is in sight. Relatives of ours descended last evening and this morning, and large pieces of furniture were loaded onto pickups and driven away to new homes.
It gets better.
My sister-in-law showed up with her sister-in-law's cousin. He's looking for a house and, if the price is right, he's very interested in my mother's place. I've explained to him my Power of Attorney to handle my mother's affairs includes a fiduciary responsibility to her. I can't simply sell the house at a loss. The money from the sale will be used for her care. He understands this. I understand the house needs new shingles. I'm sure we can work a deal, especially if we don't have to pay realtor fees. My first call on Monday will be to an appraiser, something I need to do, anyway.
Dismantling my mother's home is bittersweet. I have the memories of how happy she was living there while her memories of it are gone. Her dishes, clothes, knick-knacks - all that she loved is forgotten. But I remember.
My mother loved swans and had quite the collection. She talked about growing up once, telling me how she never felt pretty as a girl. I have a photo of her in her wedding dress, when she was eighteen and about to marry my dad. She was beautiful. And somewhere in the course of her life, she felt an affinity to the swan, which starts life plain and matures into magnificence. Knowing this, it's very difficult to keep any of the swans. I've always thought my mom was lovely. It's painful to know she ever felt otherwise.
Sitting in her empty house this afternoon, hoping I have a buyer, it occurred to me that very soon I may lose those rooms and another link to her. The woman who was my mother has been stolen from me. I visit the woman who remains and I miss my mother.
Deuce and I sat outside on our little porch as evening turned to night. It's August now and the worst of the humidity is over for this year. I fixed a cup of coffee, something I almost never do in the evening, and my companion and I watched the deer creep into the front yard to graze. The few remaining lightning bugs twinkled here and there, and off in the distance, an owl asked the perennial question, "who?who?"
Who, indeed, will I be when this season is over?
KC Kendricks
