My dad died on February 28, and everything that had been safe and familiar and comfortable is now completely topsy-turvy.
The house is torn apart, emotionally and literally. We've been cleaning, and clearing out, and preparing for the dreaded inevitable -- selling the home place. I wouldn't, really, except that I have to in order to fulfill the terms of the will. My Dad, who was stubbornly fair, decided that my little sister should be entitled to half of everything. She hasn't lived here, she hasn't cared for him, she hasn't done anything except consume resources. But she gets half. I'm trying hard not to be bitter about it . . . I'm not succeeding.
The cats have been freaked right the hell out. Peaches had appointed himself Dad's "kitty angel", sleeping with him most of the time, and alerting me to Dad's nocturnal prowlings. As we were waiting for the morticians to arrive, Peaches kept vigil. While we were cleaning up Dad's body, Peaches supervised. When we were done, and waiting, Peaches hopped on the bed to . . . I'm not sure what. Say goodbye? I don't know what that cat knows, or why he does what he does. Gracie, who is not normally a clingy cat, has been clingy like no other thing. Rascal, who is normally a clingy cat, has been extra clingy and very whiny.
The house echoes with silence. We've cleared out so much stuff, boxed up and ready for auction, that the dining room echoes. The kids brought some stuff into the living room so that it wouldn't echo quite so much, but I still look for Dad to be in there . . . I spend most of my time either in the kitchen, working in the yard, or hiding out in the bathtub.
I haven't been able to focus well enough to spin. My spindles are not nagging me, and the fluffy fibers are, for the most part, pretty quiet. I know that Dad would want me to keep spinning . . . I just can't, yet, without crying buckets.
Every box I've packed, after having been inspected by Gracie, has gone to storage in one of the garages with the admonishment "I. Cannot. Keep. All. The. Things." That's provoked a kleenex box full of tears, too. I will be moving from a very poorly designed 2700 sq. ft. house to -- if I'm lucky and smart -- a better designed but less than 1200 sq. ft. house. So. I. Cannot. Keep. All. The. Things.
Old tools. Old clothes. Old paperwork. Old dishes and cookware. Old stuffs of all kinds. Yikes. But leaning down is essential. My son said it best: "If it doesn't nurture us physically, emotionally, spiritually and financially, it has to go." In the culture of this house in which duplicates abound, the above-mentioned leaning down is difficult, painful, and depressing. The major good-bye to my Dad is being followed by multiple, smaller, painful good-byes.
But also some hellos. More space in the kitchen while we're still here . . . cookware I haven't used in a while because too much other stuff was occupying the space now occupied by my stuff. More space in my desk now that I've gotten rid of most of the duplicates and several years of old paperwork.
And, maybe, the crowning touch for now . . . all of the songs that have been important to me throughout most of my life now safely ensconced on my iPhone.
In less than 4 GB.
The house is torn apart, emotionally and literally. We've been cleaning, and clearing out, and preparing for the dreaded inevitable -- selling the home place. I wouldn't, really, except that I have to in order to fulfill the terms of the will. My Dad, who was stubbornly fair, decided that my little sister should be entitled to half of everything. She hasn't lived here, she hasn't cared for him, she hasn't done anything except consume resources. But she gets half. I'm trying hard not to be bitter about it . . . I'm not succeeding.
The cats have been freaked right the hell out. Peaches had appointed himself Dad's "kitty angel", sleeping with him most of the time, and alerting me to Dad's nocturnal prowlings. As we were waiting for the morticians to arrive, Peaches kept vigil. While we were cleaning up Dad's body, Peaches supervised. When we were done, and waiting, Peaches hopped on the bed to . . . I'm not sure what. Say goodbye? I don't know what that cat knows, or why he does what he does. Gracie, who is not normally a clingy cat, has been clingy like no other thing. Rascal, who is normally a clingy cat, has been extra clingy and very whiny.
The house echoes with silence. We've cleared out so much stuff, boxed up and ready for auction, that the dining room echoes. The kids brought some stuff into the living room so that it wouldn't echo quite so much, but I still look for Dad to be in there . . . I spend most of my time either in the kitchen, working in the yard, or hiding out in the bathtub.
I haven't been able to focus well enough to spin. My spindles are not nagging me, and the fluffy fibers are, for the most part, pretty quiet. I know that Dad would want me to keep spinning . . . I just can't, yet, without crying buckets.
Every box I've packed, after having been inspected by Gracie, has gone to storage in one of the garages with the admonishment "I. Cannot. Keep. All. The. Things." That's provoked a kleenex box full of tears, too. I will be moving from a very poorly designed 2700 sq. ft. house to -- if I'm lucky and smart -- a better designed but less than 1200 sq. ft. house. So. I. Cannot. Keep. All. The. Things.
Old tools. Old clothes. Old paperwork. Old dishes and cookware. Old stuffs of all kinds. Yikes. But leaning down is essential. My son said it best: "If it doesn't nurture us physically, emotionally, spiritually and financially, it has to go." In the culture of this house in which duplicates abound, the above-mentioned leaning down is difficult, painful, and depressing. The major good-bye to my Dad is being followed by multiple, smaller, painful good-byes.
But also some hellos. More space in the kitchen while we're still here . . . cookware I haven't used in a while because too much other stuff was occupying the space now occupied by my stuff. More space in my desk now that I've gotten rid of most of the duplicates and several years of old paperwork.
And, maybe, the crowning touch for now . . . all of the songs that have been important to me throughout most of my life now safely ensconced on my iPhone.
In less than 4 GB.
1 comment:
I'm so sorry for your loss. It's never easy to lose a parent.
I'm totally dealing with the "I cannot keep all the things" issue as well. I'm trying to repurpose some things (a cracked plate with memories becomes the base for a potted plant, the most memory-evoking glasses from Grandma's and Mom's houses replace the unimportant ones I already owned, etc.), but it still hurts to have to give up the other things.
Sending hugs!!
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