Tuesday, July 06, 2010
Here At The End Of Some Things
It is a strange and awkward task to dismantle the home of some one still living. The nest and representation of half of my Oma's life has begun to be distributed between garbage bags and boxes.
The ever-present cluster of rubber bands on the kitchen door handle, the lifetime supply of dixie cups, the 27 tubes and plastic bottles of various hand creams (one dating back to the 1970's in the form of Jean Nate), the scraps and scraps and scraps of wrapping paper, they all went into garbage bags.
The stacks of Christmas tea towels, the 17 oven mitts (some with tags still attached), the pumpkin candles, the skeins and skeins and skeins of yarn, they all went into boxes.
The photographs that exploded out of drawers and nooks in every room were contained, in totes, in one area. The gallery-worthy hand knit tablecloths and embroidery were slung over hangers in another. A few of the garden gnomes, who lived for years in my Oma's backyard and of late found themselves suffocating in musty boxes, made their way into the back of my car and will resurrect their kitsch by my door.
It is strange and awkward here at the end of some things, the end of an era of an immigrant's life. There is much more to sort, there is much more to toss, there is much more to handle with love and regard as we unravel the nest left empty by a mind in need of more care.