Stuff

People live on in their stuff (at least for those who knew the people, know the stuff - the very essence of existential meaning).

I see Brenda's everyday bath towel (somewhat tattered - she always gave me the best ones) hanging over a shower curtain rod in the little bath room, and a vase of artificial daisies gathering dust on the top of a commode tank in the big bath room, and cat statues symmetrically placed on a shelf that I mounted on the kitchen wall just over the dinette table (these and two living cats watch me eat my odd bachelor meals).

And papers, especially papers.

I am going through the papers that Brenda accumulated on a desk, computer stand and two-drawer file at one end of Yancie's old bedroom. (It was Brenda's office - although nothing to compare with her last office at the Department of Transportation where she covered two desks and three or four tables with piles of neatly organized papers.)

There are a lot of old receipts, some clipped and marked in her neat handwriting "paid by me". I throw them away. There are also piles of papers from various charities. She favored animal causes and had a soft spot for cops, firemen, and soldiers. I throw these and other offerings away, even the unopened envelopes with trinkets designed to work on her guilt. She knew what they were doing, but still could not bring herself to discard the note cards, and coins, and necklaces made in China by Dakota Indian children. I throw them away.

Fighting back occasional waves of tears I only keep the best stuff which I will put into boxes that will probably go into Yancie's attic and acquire the status of sacred objects.

It feels like I am getting rid of Brenda again, like making her get into the car to go to the Hospice House to die. But perhaps I am just winnowing her away, parsing her for the ages.