After my mother-in-law died, I was the "keeper of her stuff" and I felt a heavy responsibility to my children and their children to compile some sort of scrapbook of her life so that her progeny would know what a wonderful person she was. I thought it should contain more than a few photos, pieces of genealogy, and a blurb in the obituary column. It should contain glimpses of her dreams, her lifelong best friends, her letters, her hobbies and skills that benefited the family she loved, her interests and core beliefs that guided her life, and even the mistakes she made that shaped her character.
I placed her "stuff" in several boxes to be compiled later, beside a crackling fire during the
winter nights to come.
Then my brother died.
I placed his "stuff" in several boxes to be compiled later,
perhaps beside a tall lemonade on a shady deck during the lazy
summer evenings to come.
Then my sister-in-law died.
I placed my memorabilia of her in a box and...
Then my mother died.
I placed her "stuff" in many boxes and stored them in a shed
that rendered it useless for any other purpose, to be compiled
later, perhaps when I'm recovering from major surgery.
Then a best friend died.
I placed my memorabilia of him in a box and set it on top of
the boxes of my father's "stuff," my stepfather's "stuff,"
my stepmother's "stuff," my grandmother's "stuff," my sister-in-law's "stuff,"
and my two great-grandmother's "stuff," and...
Then I looked around and saw all my "stuff." I turned slowly, shut the door firmly, and quietly said,
"I'll catch you later, stuff."