Spent a few hours going through her stuff, her kids and I, cries of “anyone want this?” and “anyone know what this is?”

I’m coming home with a quilt she made. I’ll pretend it was the one she was going to make for me, but never got to. It was something she did for her grandkids when they got married. Funny thing is, I did get married, but never told this branch of the family. I’m sure it would have counted, too. The quilt is a lightweight one, good for San Diego climate, and will pack tighter than a fuller one would.

When I was a kid, visiting, she’d never have toys – but the bottom drawer in the kitchen was where she kept the coolest stuff – a magnifying lens, magnets, bells, springs, random odds and ends that I found endlessly fascinating. From that drawer I’m bringing home a tiny cast-iron cauldron, two brass bells, and a soapstone brick. I may need to explain these at the airport. I’ve also claimed a pretty hardwood letter opener because it matches some of my hardwood paddles. Heh. Not exactly the story I told them.

It’s ... eerie, going through a dead woman’s things, deciding what’s worth saving, what’s trash, what’s for donating. Gleaning a paltry few mementos to remember a woman who lived three times longer than I have (almost). A woman who is now evermore Past Tense.

There are mysteries. There’s an object in her bedside drawer that looks like a handle to something, but none of us can identify it. There’s a half-pack of feminine hygiene products she hasn’t needed for fifty years. There’s a gold-tipped cane with the head missing. Small, mundane mysteries, no hidden treasure, no secret lovers.

And stories. I wasn’t the only child who played in the bottom drawer, not by a dozen. I wasn’t the only member of our family who grew up never hearing “I Love You”, despite plentiful nonverbal evidence that I was loved.

And they’re gone, half her stuff going with them, the rest awaiting boxing for Goodwill. The room no longer awaits her return. The dying flowers have been thrown away, though I’ve reserved some rose petals for some reason. I just couldn’t throw a rose away.

Not for the first time, I wonder who will do this for me, and what I’ll leave behind. So far, this visit, I’ve learned a few things about myself. I was a handsome teenager who needed a haircut. I’m still known for my appetite, though it’s long gone -- I raise eyebrows by not wanting dessert or seconds. I can smile better now than on any previous visit (oddly), and I’ve discovered that my smile is my father’s. And, pawing through old, old photos, I find myself fiercely proud of my roots. We’ve grown in hardship, and each generation is more beautiful.

I may never reproduce, but my history line will continue. I’ll be someone’s Fairy Godfather, and that someone will get my family, too. Because, faults and all, we’re worth remembering.

2003-03-20