(No Title)

What would possess a 72-year-old woman to store a plastic diaper pail in her basement for several lifetimes? Does she have some latent hope of opening a day care center? Doesn't she know the whole world switched to disposeables in the 1970s? She knows. But what does it matter? In the fall of 1955, on her fifth wedding anniversary, she buried her four-year-old son. In the stopped-clock days that followed, she pressed his young life carefully into the container, filling it with his favorite books, his red leather cowboy boots, photographs, a baby book, and a bound collection of sympathy cards. Then she hid it from her sight, sent it into the far corner of the depths, where it could not kill her often. It has fallen to us, her children, to make decisions about her house: the depths, the heights, and everything in between. "What about Patrick's things?" I ask. "Do you want them moved to your new place?" "No," she says. "It was a long time ago. Another life." And so this legacy becomes my inheritance. I am his sister. It is the first time I have handled these things, or even known of their existence. They are crumbling, faded, yellowed, though brand new to me. I touch each one with care, read every word through tears. Some of the envelopes are sealed tight, appear unread, unopened. Am I the only one to ever have laid eyes upon these words? Were there days when my mother could not endure the kind thoughts of those who loved her, when she put the letters aside to deal with later, in another life? While she tried so desperately to forget, I've been waiting my whole life to remember. It is the first time I've really grieved for him, for my parents, for all of us. I'm grateful to the writers, the friends and relatives (many long dead) who reached out to my mother, my father, and to me. Even if my parents couldn't read every word, I have, and the comfort meant for them has passed to me. It was a long time ago, another life, my mother says. And so it is. But somehow, even after all this time, it's become my life, too. I am his sister.

Posted by Katy on 08/20/02 at 05:16 PM

Fallible Comments...

Commenting is not available in this weblog entry.

Next entry: (No Title)

Previous entry: (No Title)

<< Back to main


		more fallible attitude »

Personal blog of christian writer & fallible mom Katy McKenna Raymond in Kansas City, Missouri Katy is represented by Greg Johnson at WordServe Literary Read more Katy at LateBoomer.net Follow Katy on Twitter Follow Katy on Facebook 123 Recent Posts Try Becoming Brenda Starr Off Beat Scattered That’s It So I’ve Finally Signed With An Agent. Now What? The Spoon Sciatica Sweetheart A Woman’s Train of Thought Has No Caboose However much we own, we are all still living on borrowed time After all, when restaurants shrink portions, they don’t shrink prices. As with everything in life, balance is key. Slow down, you move too fast… Yeah, I know. I have issues. Search Advanced Search Syndicate Login E me at katy @ ngenius.com	(No Title) What would possess a 72-year-old woman to store a plastic diaper pail in her basement for several lifetimes? Does she have some latent hope of opening a day care center? Doesn't she know the whole world switched to disposeables in the 1970s? She knows. But what does it matter? In the fall of 1955, on her fifth wedding anniversary, she buried her four-year-old son. In the stopped-clock days that followed, she pressed his young life carefully into the container, filling it with his favorite books, his red leather cowboy boots, photographs, a baby book, and a bound collection of sympathy cards. Then she hid it from her sight, sent it into the far corner of the depths, where it could not kill her often. It has fallen to us, her children, to make decisions about her house: the depths, the heights, and everything in between. "What about Patrick's things?" I ask. "Do you want them moved to your new place?" "No," she says. "It was a long time ago. Another life." And so this legacy becomes my inheritance. I am his sister. It is the first time I have handled these things, or even known of their existence. They are crumbling, faded, yellowed, though brand new to me. I touch each one with care, read every word through tears. Some of the envelopes are sealed tight, appear unread, unopened. Am I the only one to ever have laid eyes upon these words? Were there days when my mother could not endure the kind thoughts of those who loved her, when she put the letters aside to deal with later, in another life? While she tried so desperately to forget, I've been waiting my whole life to remember. It is the first time I've really grieved for him, for my parents, for all of us. I'm grateful to the writers, the friends and relatives (many long dead) who reached out to my mother, my father, and to me. Even if my parents couldn't read every word, I have, and the comfort meant for them has passed to me. It was a long time ago, another life, my mother says. And so it is. But somehow, even after all this time, it's become my life, too. I am his sister. Posted by Katy on 08/20/02 at 05:16 PM Fallible Comments... Commenting is not available in this weblog entry. Next entry: (No Title) Previous entry: (No Title) << Back to main


copyright 2011, ngenius media inc.

Personal blog of christianwriter & fallible momKaty McKenna Raymondin Kansas City, Missouri

Recent Posts

Search

Syndicate

(No Title)

Personal blog of christian
writer & fallible mom
Katy McKenna Raymond
in Kansas City, Missouri