Movin' On
Last night I was rummaging through some things that I had years ago stored in my antique dower chest. I came across a large plastic bag in which I found my Granny's amazing little vintage black hat from the 40's and her fur stole. (I have accumulated so much shit that I didn't even realize I had, it's unbelievable.) Anyway, I repackaged the 2 treasured items and was about to toss the old plastic bag in the trash when something caught my eye and - oh, my God - it was one of those bags that hospitals generate to enclose the personal possessions of patients. It had originated from the hospital in Kentucky to which my Daddy was rushed by ambulance when he had his final, fatal heart attack minutes after he arrived at the Emergency Room. And there, hiding in a corner of the bag, was a sticker imprinted with his name, date of birth, attending E.R. physician and the date, 12/08/93. That was the night my father died. I just stood there staring at that little sticker in disbelief, as the realization sunk in that this was obviously the receptacle into which some nurse had placed his watch and his wallet and his wedding ring and whatever else is removed from a patient who doesn't make it. Then I guess they handed that plastic sack of sorrow to my mother, who took it back home, eventually emptied it of its contents and placed it in a drawer or a closet or somewhere from which I had apparently just grabbed it without looking, and put the old hat and stole inside and rolled it up and brought it home and put it away for years and years. Imagine. I cried for an hour. It was an intense discovery. I peeled the sticker off and saved it. I threw the damn bag away.
The nostalgia of this packing process is eating me alive. Baby scrapbooks, wedding albums, ancient love letters now brittle and meaningless. Old photos of loves lost, and of parents once young and vital and dancing to some forgotten tune, and of my tiny children now grown and flown away from the nest ... I am intermittently paralyzed each time an attack of sentimental grief sets in. I'll never get out of this house at this rate.
The nostalgia of this packing process is eating me alive. Baby scrapbooks, wedding albums, ancient love letters now brittle and meaningless. Old photos of loves lost, and of parents once young and vital and dancing to some forgotten tune, and of my tiny children now grown and flown away from the nest ... I am intermittently paralyzed each time an attack of sentimental grief sets in. I'll never get out of this house at this rate.