My Dad, me, Dave and my stepmother at Dave's and my wedding in 2007.
My father was my last living connection to my family of origin, until his passing in 2017. Together he and I death cleaned for my mother, my grandmother and my grandfather – each time growing both closer to each other and more efficient in the process. My father was the single witness to each stage of my life until very recently. He helped me move as a young adult and again as a middle-aged woman, twice. He met and knew both of my husbands. When Dave stepped up at the end of my dad’s life and asked all the tough questions in the hospital, I saw a new respect for him form in my father’s eyes. Although not an emotionally close person, my father loved Anne and I both dearly. I could always count on him to be there if I said I needed him.
There was never a doubt in my mind that I’d get the privilege of helping with the closure of his life, as well. Or was there? I think there was in his mind.
Every time we would go to visit in the last 5 years or so before he died, he’d take me out to the garage and bring out family photo albums from his side of the family. He walked me through each one, identifying himself, his mother, his aunts and uncles, his father. And then he’d ask me to take it home. I had mixed feelings about this, but he was insistent each time.
By the time he passed away, there were only a few things left in the house that I would have liked to have had – a favorite one of his mother’s paintings that hung over the piano while I was growing up, and his few mementos in the safe, which I knew were important to him.
I’ll never see the painting again. I’m reconciled to that.
My father – always efficient, always thoughtful, organized in the way engineers are to predict the future. He knew far more than I did. Years ago, he sat me down and told me exactly what his small estate would entail for me. The rest was headed to my stepmother. This was fine. As it should be.
I always knew where I stood with my dad.
The box of mementos, when it arrived 8 years later from the woman with whom I never knew where I stood, was simply a stunning surprise.
In many ways, this entire cleaning process has been a surprise from beginning to end. Not the least of which is the defensiveness and fear that rises in people’s eyes when I explain what I’m doing. What I want people to understand is that it’s not just about getting rid of things; it’s about learning to value what’s most important to me. It’s about enjoying the possessions I love and letting go of that that no longer serves me. It’s seeing the connections between things I loved, but no longer used, being enjoyed again by my daughter or by friends. It’s been rediscovering the forgotten known and leaving clues for my descendants, so it won’t be forgotten again.
Mostly, it’s been letting go of guilt.
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