Six Boxes...

They have been sitting in the garage for more than two years now. Two columns of three. Six boxes. They contain the last of my Mom's belongings. Things we moved from her home in the assisted living facility in Medicine Hat, to The Churchill residence in downtown Edmonton, to our garage. I've been ignoring them; pretending they aren't there. But we're moving and it doesn't make sense to move them again. So they've been looming; beckoning; almost reaching out like thirsty tendrils of a parched houseplant. They're begging for attention; for someone to go through their contents, touch the once cherished items, sort them; decide where they go. That someone is me.

Proximity seems to be what designates someone for certain roles or tasks. Sifting through my Mom's life wasn't something I signed up for at birth. It came from years of knowing her, loving her and caring for her. She trusted me. She entrusted this to me. She believed I would know what to do - what to give to whom. It was the emotional and physical proximity that made me the keeper of the boxes.

So I cracked the first box on the same day the garage door cracked me on the head. That was how the gong show of a walk with the dog ended. It was a walk where I fought a losing game of tug-o'-war with a rogue pair of underwear; was a blood meal for swarms of hungry mosquitoes; suffered a lack of integrity with the second poop bag, and struggled with the third bag as my dog shamelessly dragged her furry little bottom all over the grassy boulevard. Needless to say, after these events and the garage door assault, I was feeling more than a little off kilter and decided it was a good day to unleash the contents of the six boxes. 

The first few items freed from their cardboard confines were her bowling awards. She was an excellent bowler - even with macular degeneration. In one of her journals I found some of her higher scores documented; one-ninety-nine, two-forty. I decided to set these treasures aside for her Grandkids. They knew of their Granny's bowling prowess and even went to the lanes with her on occasion. She loved that. Then I found the ornate old box where she kept favorite pieces of costume jewelry. Inside I found the sparkly brooch I bought her that said, "I ❤ 2 Bowl". She wore that for luck. It also contained her initialed sterling silver compact - when I opened it, the pressed powder smell that was my Mom filled my nostrils. The next box yielded four more years of journals I didn't know were missing and numerous pads of lined paper, manuscripts, envelopes, Lifesavers, and ledgers. As I went through each box I tried to sort in piles where items should go, but by the time I got around to the sixth box, I had nothing that resembled any order. It was strewn about on the garage floor as though I'd thrown it there - proof I am my Mother's daughter. But the last box delivered the most unexpected treasures. 

Box six contained my Mom's purse, she'd been looking for it for a very long time and I'm sure she'd be relieved to know I found it. The wallet I bought her was inside but there were no dollar bills tucked into its folds, just two diaper pins attached to the lining of the purse. Blue diaper pins - the kind used when I was having babies. Sturdy, straight, industrial strength diaper pins; perfect for pearl-knotting, so just like Mom would do, I pinned them to my shirt for safekeeping. There were photos and books and balled up in a corner of the box was one of the T-shirts she got for submitting a photo, poem, or story to the Alberta Council on Aging (ACA) magazine. The caption on the shirt reads, "Not only wine and cheese get better with age.". Then, in the bottom of the same box was a notebook. Inside it were two letters she wrote in her own hand and never mailed. One was to Jenny, the mother of my grandchildren, the other one was to me and Garnet. It said; "Thanks for all the writing paper and books and time spent and the gum and all the small important things. You're just great! Whoever raised you did a wonderful job - you're so cheerful and helpful to this old Mother. I'm very lucky. Sure lucky to have a great son-in-law as well - how on earth did you manage that? Love to you both, Mom."

If proximity designated me the keeper of the boxes - then I'm the lucky one. All that's left is a little pressed powder.

And the rest is pixie dust...