Despite my mother being a meticulous organizer and a habitual declutterer, there was still a mountain of work ahead of me. When my parents purchased their home 15 years earlier, it was a stunning builder’s model, beautifully decorated and furnished. Following my father’s passing shortly after the move, my mother had to forge a new life for herself, living independently and far away from her five children. She managed remarkably well, establishing a lovely circle of friends, joining a book club, traveling, playing golf, and visiting us a few times each year. Meanwhile, I was busy building my own family, finding it increasingly challenging to visit her, especially in a house where every room led directly to her swimming pool deck. As a result, my visits became infrequent.
My siblings and I decided it would be best to sell her house with the furniture included. I organized the task into three categories: items to donate, which filled the garage; trash, which overtook the driveway; and belongings to keep, which filled five large boxes. Over three grueling days, I spent 16 hours each day sorting through her possessions.
This process was both beautiful and heart-wrenching, and I often found solace in the solitude. I could reflect on my parents’ shared history, admiring the art they collected and reminiscing as I mourned the closing of a chapter in a book I never thought would end. I cherished the framed photographs my mother displayed around the house, capturing moments with my father, my siblings, and our families.
Among the items, I stumbled upon a scrapbook—a sort of brag book for adults. It was filled with our achievements: job promotions, legal victories, and art show invitations. I could picture her proudly sharing it with her friends. However, part of me—after a few glasses of wine each evening—wished my sister could have been there with me. It would have made the experience more enjoyable and allowed us to share in both laughter and tears.
My heart ached as I discovered evidence of my mother’s struggles with memory loss: drawers brimming with books on the subject, workbooks filled with memory puzzles, jars of vitamins aimed at enhancing brain health, and numerous notes she’d written to herself. It was heartbreaking to realize she had never confided in anyone about her condition. In hindsight, the signs were there.
My brother and I had gifted my mom digital photo frames filled with images from our lives, but they were nowhere to be found—likely discarded because she couldn’t figure out how to operate them. I noticed that as her world became smaller, she seemed to be simplifying her belongings, trying to create a manageable environment. In her kitchen hung a large whiteboard I had made for her to jot down reminders. “Tissues” was still written on it from two visits ago.
As I accumulated bags of trash and donation piles, I also selected items for the five boxes I was preparing for my siblings and myself—sentimental treasures that were too valuable to discard. I pondered what to do with the family pictures we had all diligently sent her each year. Should I return them to the senders?
Years prior, when my husband’s grandmother passed, my mother-in-law had immersed herself in a similar task, sending me a box that contained a Tiffany tulip vase we had gifted to his grandmother long ago. Though it wasn’t particularly my style, I held onto it. Each time I see it, I think of Grandma Groves and her kindness.
Inspired by my mother-in-law’s approach, I decided to do the same with the gifts I had given my mom. She had a creative spirit, often receiving handmade or unique items from me. Sometimes they adorned her space, while other times they vanished without a trace. If she didn’t love something, she simply let it go.
Among the items I discovered tucked away on a shelf was a beautiful glass rainbow I had gifted her shortly after my father’s passing. I had hoped that it would remind her of him and bring her comfort. It seemed to have succeeded, as it had not been discarded like the photo frames or other gifts. I was thrilled to be able to bring the rainbow home, safeguarding it in my carry-on to ensure its safety during transport. Now, every time I catch a glimpse of it on a shelf, it evokes fond memories of my mother and brings a smile to my face.
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In summary, the experience was a bittersweet journey through memories, loss, and the joy of rediscovering meaningful objects that connected me to my mother and our family history.
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