Ripples...

Years from now, if civilizations unearth our remains as we have those before us, they will think we were made of paper. I spent several days this week scouring nearly forty years of paper belonging to my parents. They saved everything. 

I read Worker's Compensation reports confirming that my Dad had Asbestosis, notifications of the monthly pension amount he was allotted, and the annual statements of increase. I read letters from lawyers my Dad had hired to file complaints against the City of Medicine Hat because the work they were doing in the remote area where they lived was polluting the air he breathed. I read snippets of poems my Mom never finished, and leafed through income tax filings and bank statements. It was a mountain of paper that my shredder struggled to digest. This was my parent's life that I was feeding into this temperamental machine. It was paper their eyes and hands had touched.

This notion gave me pause. My mind's eye conjured up misty images of them holding these papers; my Dad's strong hands, my Mom's long, slender fingers. I imagined them alive, intact, and living in the old house going about their lives as they had always done. It was a pleasant thought and in a way, I felt like a kid sticking my hand in the cookie jar. These were private matters significant to their livelihood and off limits to me. 

In life, they would never have discussed these matters with me, their youngest and least educated child; their baby. But here I was, an unwitting voyeur, peering into their lives and privy to their business. Death seems to lay us bare. Things we held close to our chests in life are suddenly unleashed, secrets are squandered and truths are inadvertently told. It made me wonder why we bother to conceal those things we have no choice but to leave behind. Yet no great family secrets were revealed to me. 

I didn't find any papers to confirm my childhood suspicions that I was adopted. There was no money being funneled to offshore accounts and my Dad didn't have another wife and family in Wisconsin. The only noteworthy item I found and spared from the jaws of the shredder was a letter from my sister's childhood friend, Bonnie. She wrote to my Mom thanking her for the farewell tribute she gave at Bonnie's Mom's funeral and how much that meant to her. She also thanked Mom for her influence and everything she did for Bonnie as she was growing up. In capital letters she wrote, "I THINK YOU ARE A GREAT LADY!"

 
While chiseling my way through this mountain of paper I'd unearthed a treasure, a gem, a nugget of truth. It reaffirmed that my Mom left her handprint on more hearts than just my own. She wasn't a poor little black girl from the backwoods of Mississippi who rose up from obscurity and made a big splash. She was a quietly remarkable person, who gave of herself and made a difference; content just to make ripples. 

The rest is pixie dust...