When my mom died it was strange to go through her things. At the time I couldn't deal with the idea of throwing anything away, and so everything was boxed up and shoved anywhere I could fit it. Three moves, a grandson she'll never meet, and five years later there's not much left that was hers. The things I have have become so integrated into my daily life that almost none of them remind me of her anymore. Tucked into a closet there is a box of VHS tapes that I keep even though I have nothing to play them on because I know she's on them. Just waiting for me to find a way to get them onto a media I can play, and hear her voice one more time.Sitting on the piano I don't know how to play is the box her ashes were kept in before I spread them, and on top of that box sit a pair of glasses that aren't mine. Those remind me of her. They are my touchstone to a sense of something that the photos and collection of books just can't give me.
And somewhere in NYC in the home of girl I met once there is a box where mixed in with hundreds of others, my mother's keys sit. In a way they're just as anonymous as the rest, and in a way that means much more to me, they are once again part of the stream of stories that make up this fragile human existence. Even if some day those keys wind up in a bin along side faded wedding photos I know they will find a home with another soul who will hold them and wonder what their story is.
I am very late replying to this comment, but I just read it and I wanted you to know it made me cry. And then I went over to the jars and boxes of keys and looked through them and wondered which ones were your mom's and what doors they opened.
Thank you for reminding me this post was here. It was good to read it again, and come back to those thoughts.
I tried to remember which keys I gave you. I know it was the her college key chain from Tusculum, but that's all I remember. I can't picture them, but I know in a heart beat I'd know what they sounded like. That's what I remember more than anything. The incredibly distinct sound that her unique collection of keys and key chains combined to make. I always knew when she walked into a house because I knew the sound of those keys.
And somewhere in NYC in the home of girl I met once there is a box where mixed in with hundreds of others, my mother's keys sit. In a way they're just as anonymous as the rest, and in a way that means much more to me, they are once again part of the stream of stories that make up this fragile human existence. Even if some day those keys wind up in a bin along side faded wedding photos I know they will find a home with another soul who will hold them and wonder what their story is.
That means something.
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Thank you for this.
Love.
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I tried to remember which keys I gave you. I know it was the her college key chain from Tusculum, but that's all I remember. I can't picture them, but I know in a heart beat I'd know what they sounded like. That's what I remember more than anything. The incredibly distinct sound that her unique collection of keys and key chains combined to make. I always knew when she walked into a house because I knew the sound of those keys.
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