car, yellow, promise, farmhouse
I thought I'd share what I wrote. (Keep in mind it was unedited and spontaneous.)
I spent the last week of Mom's life at the apartment with her and Dad. On the Thursday I took Dad's car and went over to the farmhouse to pick up a few things. Mom wanted to be buried in the blue and white dress she'd got for their 40th anniversary party, so I went upstairs to the wardrobe to get it. I also got panty hose and underwear from a drawer and took a pair of slingback shoes out of the closet. I didn't know if they would put shoes on Mom in the casket but I thought we should be prepared.
I wandered through the house, which looked, as my brother had warned, like a bomb had gone off. I looked at the odd rectangles of yellowed wallpaper where pictures had been removed from the wall. I looked into the bedroom where, just 6 weeks before, Rich and I and Jonathan had slept, with Mom sick down the hall and no one knowing just how sick she was. My other brother had said, "It's a house, but it's not a home." He was right. The rooms seemed desolate, with no more promise of warmth and laughter within their walls.
I went outside, where it was sunny and much warmer than inside. I was glad to drive away. I'd gotten what I was looking for -- Mom's dress, Dad's suit, a few odds and ends -- at that moment there was no reason to stay.
photo by Alycia Adams-MacEachern - October 2, 2014