It Was Time

Originally a blog entry...

         I didn't think I'd be able to do it, but it was time; time to banish all the sadness and remember only the joyful times.  Today, for the first time in the four years since my mother-in-law passed away, we went to see my father-in-law at his home instead of having him come to ours. 

         He hadn't wanted us to come over in all that time; he said he needed to get out of the house.  Therefore, almost every Saturday for the last four years he has come to our house to have a meal with the family.  Most times I’d cook; occasionally we’d go out.  After Mom died we rearranged where people sat at the dining room table so he didn’t feel as awkward, sitting where he used to sit, without her beside him.  This weekend, though, he needed some repairs done.  Both toilets had begun to leak and a faucet had broken.  At 82 years of age, he simply didn’t have the strength or flexibility to crawl around and fix them.

         It was difficult to think about going to his house.  The children were apprehensive; they missed Nanny so much.  Upon entering, everything looked the same, as we had expected.  Looking again, though, we realized that everything was exactly the same.  Nothing had been touched since her death.  Plants still stood in the same places, long dead; dry and brittle from lack of water, their faded color further dulled by a thick layer of dust.  Once-bright knickknacks that had proudly marched along the shelves stood pale and dull beneath four years’ worth of accumulation.  Curio windows, frosted with dust, displayed their sad contents, each piece joined to the others with filmy strands of spider silk.  Every corner was draped with a gray curtain of cobweb, perfectly festooned by the slow, gentle movement of stale air.

         Memories were everywhere.  Her chair sat empty with her pillow and blanket waiting to welcome her, the July, 2004 issue of Good Housekeeping laid open across the arm, held in place my her glasses.  Her empty coffee mug still stood on the end table as if she had just gotten up.  The chair rocked slightly as I passed, sending an eerie shiver up my spine.

         Mom's hairbrush remained on the bathroom sink, filled with her hair.  Her perfume still stood on the countertop; her pajamas neatly folded on the shelf waiting for her to go to bed.  It was as though time stood still.  Unused lotion, powder, and makeup bottles were glued to the countertop with dust that had moistened and dried with the humidity of four years of showers.  The light filtering through the lace curtains illuminated a path in the dusty floor. 

         Throughout the house was more of the same:  everything where Mom had left it, covered with a dull layer of time.  The dining table in the kitchen was heaped with empty prescription bottles, mail, papers, and miscellaneous items.  One spot was open for eating; it was laid with a place mat, a pill box with Dad’s daily medications, and two framed photos; one of him and one of Mom taken after their wedding.

         In the family room, a bright shiny object caught my attention; its color had not been dulled by dust.  Resting on the table beside Dad’s chair was the photo album we’d made of their 50th wedding anniversary party. Across the room in another chair were numbered albums, each one white with gold trim, containing photos he’d taken since Mom’s death.  Curious, I opened one of them while he and my husband went to the hardware store.  My breath caught in my throat as I thumbed through the pages.  Each picture was of her grave stone, but each was different.  In one, he had a newspaper showing the date.  In another, a bouquet of flowers graced the stone.  In another, he emptied the contents of his pocket and displayed coins, a comb, a pocketknife, his car keys, and his can opener from his Army days.  Another picture showed an automobile booklet advertising the new vehicle he had recently purchased along with his new keys; the next showed a framed photo of the two of them atop the stone; in yet another he had propped travel brochures against the stone, showing places we had taken him on our last vacation.

         I could hear the echo of my heartbeat in my ears as I turned each page.  There were twelve albums, in all, each containing 100 4” x 6” photos of Mom’s headstone with a different item of importance.  My 18-year-old daughter looked at me with tears filling her eyes.  “Why,” she whispered.

         “He wants to share all of these things with her,” I said, understanding both his actions and her pain.  “After 60+ years of marriage, he is still sharing his life with her in the only way he knows how.”  I held her as she sobbed softly into my shoulder.

         It was time.  It was time to let go of the pain and remember the joy.  I took my daughter’s hand and led her to the kitchen.  Photos on the refrigerator showed Mom smiling, hugging her children and grandchildren.  “Remember this,” I said gently.  “Remember how lovely she was, how much she cared for every one of us, and the joy she brought to our lives.  We’ll miss her forever but we have to miss her for the joy she brought to us, not for the sorrow she left behind.”

         Yes, it was time.  Mom was a lovely woman and I will always carry fond memories of her in my heart.  Today I remembered the love she had for her family and the happy times we spent together.  Yes, there were tears; there were gardenia scented bath products that tugged at my heartstrings; her jewelry called out from its lonely place on the dressing table, longing to be worn.

         As I swept away the dust I also brushed away my tears.  The dull gray blanket was lifted from my heart and the color restored to my vision as each item I dusted displayed its vibrant hues. Removing the shroud of dust from each item I was reminded of Mom’s beautiful qualities:  her love, compassion, beauty, talent, tolerance, endurance, acceptance, sense of humor, and her smile.  I'll always miss her, but today I can start remembering the joy.

ID: 1374066   (Rated: E) Gardenias Will Always Make Me Cry  Loving memories prompted by a familiar scent by justme