Permanence

 Outside... it is raining.

And quite frankly, it only looks half as bleak, tired, sad, and bare as I feel. 

The yard is full of leaves. Wet, dying leaves. Covering the ground. 

 They are stuck to the wall too.
Blown there by the wind.
Stuck.
Not able to go go anywhere.

 Some of them almost made it over.
But not quite.

They are everywhere. 

And they will not be cleaned up. 

We all have bigger things to worry about. 

And in the middle of all the gray and the dreariness, there is still a pink rose. Limp and wet. But pink. And it seems to be the last living thing in this yard. 

Inside, there are pieces of green tape stuck to everything. With people's names on them, signifying which piece of furniture now belongs to who. They are everywhere. Even stuck to my sock. 

Fortunately, it is a piece with my mom's name on it. 

And we are responsible for tearing apart a home. We are dividing and separating items that have been carefully and lovingly collected. Everything is going to different places, and it seems like they are losing a bit of their value as they are carried out the door. And yet they are gaining an entirely new sort of value. Pieces of her will be incorporated into our lives, will become pieces of us. And it makes sense, because every single one of us is also a piece of her. All of the pieces joining. And the pieces, though oddly shaped, somehow fit together. 

The memories... They come. 

They are everywhere. 

Floating around, collecting in corners, and hanging in the air, in people's eyes and sometimes escaping down their cheeks. 

Everywhere we look, there is proof of the life that was lived. 

There are many pictures. There is food in the fridge and in the cupboards. There is a pair of worn socks beside her shoes, the way she left them. 

Bits and pieces of both of my grandparents everywhere. Someone hands me a stack of notes that i wrote them when i was young, and I wonder at what point I stopped writing them notes that said "I love you" and why exactly I stopped. And it makes me wonder why I would not give everyone that I know and care about and love a note that tells them exactly that. 

It is the same house, and yet different. I feel myself start to detach, and acknowledge that this second home is not going to be part of my life anymore. The bedroom that I used as my own, the fridge that I raided just as comfortably as the one at my own house, the cellar with the low ceiling, the tippy stool that has come close to causing many injuries, the blue tea pot and tea cups from Japan, the bells around the mirror at Christmas, the cupboard corner that i used to bump my head on regularly (i know... that explains some stuff, right? =)) are no longer going to be part of my life. 

I am cold, and she is not there anymore to ask me if the temperature is okay, or if the heat should be turned up. 

There are leaves all over the kitchen floor, and it is wrong. 

Cousins and aunts and uncles are talking about what items they want, and that also seems wrong. I watch, and see the initial moment of connection when you realize that you and someone else share a common fondness for something. It is a quick, tight bond between the two of you. And then there is the realization that only one of you can have it, and one person sacrifices without complaint, because we know that it is not the items, but the memories attached to them that are most important. 

The house still smells like her in a few, rare, undisturbed place. But for the most part, that familiar smell has been replaced with the smell of smoke and sweat, and that is when I realize all over again that this change... it's permanent. 

The radio is turned on, and it is not a station that she would have listened to. "Moon River" is playing, and it is soft, and sad, and wishful, and peaceful, but not the Audrey Hepburn version.

And mixed in with that, I hear the familiar song of the tiny, gold, heart-shaped jewelry box that sat on the dresser upstairs. 

It is so familiar, and the sound of it makes me feel incredibly sad, because it reminds me of all the time that i ever spent there and because i will most likely never hear it again. 

There are so many things that I want to take home with me, because I know that she loved them, and therefore they are valuable to me, but one only needs so many glass figurines and candy dishes. So I try to choose things that she loved and that I love and will be able to use. (This is how I ended up with a chair. lol. it is actually the perfect chair. I love my chair. =)) 

Someone asks me if I want to help them get coffee and tea ready and I do, and we stand side by side at the kitchen counter, me and this relative that I barely know, and she spies something sitting on the counter and puts the coffee pot down quickly and grabs it and almost hugs it and says "I have always loved this! I find it fascinating. But I don't know what it is." 

And we laugh, even though there are tears in her eyes. And she decides to take it home with her and we finish making coffee and tea. 

There is a stack of Bibles that are soft and floppy, and well-read. And my aunts and uncles divide them up, and my cousin finds another one downstairs, and it is our great great grandpa's Bible and she gives it to me, and says that I am the one who should have it, and I don't know why, but I like the thought of reading from the same Bible that my great great grandpa studied from, and I like that it is the same God that I am reading about and who is watching me. 

Later I wash dishes by myself, and look out the window, and wonder why I didn't spend more time washing dishes here, looking out at the pretty little back yard and thinking about life. Realizing that this may be the last time I ever put my hands in these sinks, and rinse this coffee pot. 

And the freshness of the loss, the initial pain, where you can hardly believe that this is real, has been replaced with a sense of permanence. This is it. The way life will be. 

And it's okay. 

Because in the middle of all the memories, plans are also made for the future. 

Plans for Christmas and Yentl-watching parties. 

The past has happened. 

But the future is still coming. 

It will be different than the past was, but that is what life is. Constant changes. 

And we learn to adjust and adapt and transform as needed.