[ad_1]
The surprises you find in your 20-year-old’s room: heels for tickets to a 12-year-old Orioles game; two mysterious chestnuts; the invisible and now crumpled report card from his last semester in college; a machete under the bed. More clothes in piles: black corduroy on a blue striped polo; tangled blue jeans with heavy gray socks.
What clothes had he finally chosen to meet the train that took his life? I will never know. But I decided not to wash anything, folding each item so carefully, starting with the sheets where I had just slept, the smell of youthful sleep very fresh.
Anne Sobel
Princeton, NJ
In the editor:
When my mother died, her kitchen contained four white plates, four white cups of coffee, and four glasses with their initials and those of my father intertwined. That glassware was a special purchase on her part, as she seldom devoted herself to anything but herself. The household items that were gifts to her over the years had been donated or given away for a long time.
My house contains several different dish patterns, enough crockery for a full service for a party of 64 people, not that my house had so many. I break the porcelain patterns and matching glass objects to match the seasons. As I do so, I catch my reflection in my mother’s mirror hanging over the dining room sideboard and notice how she looks to me now. That face in the mirror looks like the sheep of someone who is too pleased.
Mary Edwards
Pittsburgh
In the editor:
Someday we will, together, we said. Love and life boxes: pictures, letters, music. One day it never comes. My husband’s ALS is advancing. He dies, in my arms. Simon says, freeze. He couldn’t move anything.
Then a call. “My friend fell and is paralyzed. This is awkward, but since your husband has recently died … “Purpose. I move and gather: the shower chair, the ramps, etc. I bring them to this family. We meet and share, and of everything, we eat soup by the fire, we play cards, we smile.