Mother was always subtle.  Any emotion, any command, any brilliant idea was only a slight expression, touch of a suggestion or a sudden brightness in her eye.  We’ve gathered up her things into one room for packing.  There isn’t much.  My cousins said so.  They patted my arm, shoulder or head consolingly and left, already thinking of other things.  I’m alone now and sifting through her bedroom items.  They are all her things.  They all have her scent and are all very much to her tastes alone, but nothing screams of that woman.  There is nothing you could pick up from any room in the house that shouts “I AM HERS!  I WAS MADE FOR HER!”  They wouldn’t.  They all whisper.  They all sit unobtrusively keeping me company the way they did for her; the way she always did for me.

To most people they are all just things to fill her house.  To the untrained eye that’s what it must seem.  I can see her in all of it, though.  Each item has a trace of her thoughts.  Any decision she made was made with the utmost consideration down to the tiniest detail.  The things she filled her house with were undoubtedly picked each and every item with the same care.  So you can see her in them.  I can see her in them.  I’m glad my cousins left me alone with these things.

Another assignment.  It isn’t true.  My mother is still alive and kicking.  Thought I’d throw that out there.  Not that it’s relevant.


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