I sat at the table at the end of the day looking at the cash box.
Thinking to myself…
“This is it? What is in there is what we just sold her whole life for.”
All the little things she had collected. All the hobbies. The things she cooked with. The books she read (all with her name in them of course) All the things left. A lifetime of things. And every time someone picked something up and took it with them, I wanted to grab it back and tell them I changed my mind, we need to keep that.
But keeping everything just isn’t possible.
And to see that cash box, at the end of the day, was crippling. Painful. And I didn’t know it would be. Not like that.
You never really know what death looks like until you see it.
Growing up I experienced death. But as an outsider. I was removed. Even from the people I was most close to in the whole world…..because I was not the one who took care of things.
And then after so many people have gone….
I am now the taker carer of things.
Can I tell you, the funeral….is the beginning. The tip of the iceberg. And that is about the time when people swoop in to help. Cook you food. Hug you. Think you are hearing what they are actually saying. When in reality. It’s the numb period. Where you don’t hear anything. Don’t feel much. And you don’t need food. And you move and walk around in a weird catatonic trance.
It’s later. Weeks later. Months later. When you might need food. Or that hug from a friend. And I say this to remind myself to be that kind of friend. To check in later. To ask the hard questions.
I didn’t lose my mother. But my mother lost her other half. Her best friend. Her last remaining family member. Her sister. Her last sibling. A person who had been part of every part of my life. She didn’t have children of her own. Her death was unexpected. By losing one member of our family, our family all of a sudden became very, very small. And this last year has been one of transition. Of learning to live without her voice. Her loud voice. Of endless tear stained phone calls. And decisions. So many decisions. Small ones and really really big ones. And questions asked by my mother I never thought she would have to be asking. Of answers I never thought I would have to be answering. But most of all, being with my mother through this…to be a taker carer of things. It took a year, because fast was absolutely not possible….because moving on is a really big step. Because moving on means she’s the last one standing. Because moving on means we have to let go. Of a town. Of a family. Of a generation. Her death….. felt like the death of the rest of my family. All over again. But…it’s time.
Over this past year I have told people in similar situations…
There is no timeline for this.
There is no right or wrong way to grieve. Do what you have to do. Take whatever time you need. Wade through whatever you have to in your head. Cry. Don’t cry. Talk. Don’t talk.
Selling a life isn’t easy.
It’s not supposed to be.
This is so beautiful, Stacey.