Letting Go

I miss these people, these parents of mine. So so much. It has been such a rough weekend, starting with that all too familiar drive through the gorge from our house to Knoxville. I couldn't help but cry because this trip is so different, so final. Weird, because I have made at least 25 or so trips over the past 18 months that were ten times more urgent--Dad at the ER, Dad getting worse, Dad dying, Sheila getting sick, an emergency admission. But this one? Driving to their old house to clear it out, to sell and give away their belongings. Friday night it seemed overwhelming, a Herculean task, as if I would never be able to empty it. Sorting through their things, emptying drawers and closets, moving books and dishes and trinkets and clothing, pricing furniture and odds and ends. How in the world do you put a price on a lifetime of memories? 

Finding odd little things that made me catch my breath and cause actual pain in my heart, like my daughter's wedding invitation and the corsage Sheila wore, pressed into her Bible. Or my dad's high school yearbooks and a pile of Father's Day cards he'd kept for the past 60 years. Even in the garage--crazy mementos, such as the disposable ponchos you wear at Niagara Falls when going on the "Maid of the Mist" boat--they actually kept them! And everywhere I turned I could feel my parents, smell them, sense them, hear Sheila tell me "jiggle the toilet handle or it won't stop running." 

Then the actual "garage sale," and dealing with strangers touching everything, critiquing things, asking about sizes, or age, holding up an object and asking for a price, and I would look at what they were holding and could only see my dad's face under the ball cap in their hands, or smell Sheila's perfume emanating from the familiar grey poncho being held up. Not wanting to haggle over prices, but at the same time not wanting to just throw things away, I spent two days watching their home become just another house, as one thing after another got loaded into a truck or a car. Marveled at the kindness of these strangers who paid me more than what I asked, who thanked me, and blessed me, and even helped me clean up; one really kind woman even brought me some fruit. 

Then, without any warning, suddenly the house was practically empty, with only a few things waiting to be given away. I walked through all the rooms, turned the thermostat back up to a respectable, Dad-approved setting, and went outside to close up. Suddenly, a golf cart pulled into the driveway and a friendly older couple waved and asked innocently "hey where's the lady of the house?" And I had to tell these former neighbors, who had moved away six months ago, that it was too late--she'd gone. We talked for 30 minutes, and amazingly enough, I didn't cry, or even tear up--it was as if I was unloading my heart, and I wanted to be gentle, to tell them they did not shock me or hurt me. 

I do regret neither of my sisters were here to help, to grieve with me, and none of their children, my parents grandchildren, even bothered to reach out, to say well done, or thank you. But in a way, it was better this way, to be alone, alone with my feelings and memories and emotions. And I know Dad and Sheila are together again, and they are no longer hurting, or worried. And I know they loved me, and that they knew I love them. And I am ever so honored they trusted me to take care of things for them in the end. 

Love you both. Thanks for all the memories.