everyadventure
01-27-2011, 12:34 PM
I squinted at the small white house and double-checked the address. This had been my father’s home, but never mine. A military man, he’d lived many places before finally settling in this tidy clapboard in Nebraska. And this is where he’d stay.
There’s no way to say “I buried my father yesterday” without sounding melodramatic. But, as the brood of elderly church ladies kindly cackled, “He’s in a better place.” And, as his cronies from the diner assured me, “He had a good run!” So. There would be no drama or sentiment today, as I sorted through his things.
I pulled large, flattened boxes from the trunk of my car. Packing tape, permanent marker, Post-it notes for the furniture: I’d come prepared. I walked briskly up the drive, my practical kitten heels clicking against the cement.
I awkwardly unlocked the door with one hand and pushed my way inside. No, I wasn’t immersed in the familiar scent of my father’s cigars. I wasn’t distracted from my mission by a photo album on the coffee table. This isn’t that sort of story. It was neat, of course, but there was no other evidence to prove that this had been, in fact, my father’s home.
I quickly assembled three boxes and labeled them “donate,” “sell,” and “discard.” There would be no “keep” box. I began in the living room, tossing magazines in the “discard” box (Reader’s Digest, Outdoor Life). Clock, books, telephone: “donate.” There was a discarded gum wrapper on the end-table. I quickly popped it in my mouth and swallowed. I scribbled “donate” on Post-it notes and pasted them to the couch, umbrella stand, coffee table.
Feeling efficient, I moved to the kitchen. I emptied the fridge first (tomatoes, quart of milk, block of cheese) and then the cupboards (Folger’s, Saltines, canned ravioli). Dishes: “donate.” Ah: even the most disciplined of men still have a junk drawer. No, I didn’t find a tell-tale passport or birth certificate… no shocking evidence of a secret life. This isn’t that kind of a story. I did find pens, a phone book, paper clips (I hurriedly ate one) and receipts. “Discard.” I labeled the table set and coffee maker for the thrift-store employees.
The bathroom wouldn’t take long. I swept the contents of the medicine cabinet into the “discard” box. The countertop held mouthwash, aftershave, and toothpaste in an orderly line. I swallowed the toothpaste cap and tossed a stack of towels in the “donate” box. Almost finished.
I moved to my father’s bedroom. His bed was crisply made, his worn slippers tucked underneath. They were not poignant in their shabbiness. Definitely “discard.” His bureau: socks, briefs, handkerchiefs (does anyone still use handkerchiefs?). Folded polos, button-up pajamas: “donate.” The top of the bureau held a key ring (two keys), a dish of loose change, a lone button (I eat), and a box of tissues. The “discard” box is overflowing.
And, two hours after I began, I am finished. I brush my hands onto my skirt and stand tall. I do not take one last, long look at my father’s smoothed pillow. I exit the house, pull the door shut, and lock it. I am not filled with sorrow or longing.
I take nothing with me.
There’s no way to say “I buried my father yesterday” without sounding melodramatic. But, as the brood of elderly church ladies kindly cackled, “He’s in a better place.” And, as his cronies from the diner assured me, “He had a good run!” So. There would be no drama or sentiment today, as I sorted through his things.
I pulled large, flattened boxes from the trunk of my car. Packing tape, permanent marker, Post-it notes for the furniture: I’d come prepared. I walked briskly up the drive, my practical kitten heels clicking against the cement.
I awkwardly unlocked the door with one hand and pushed my way inside. No, I wasn’t immersed in the familiar scent of my father’s cigars. I wasn’t distracted from my mission by a photo album on the coffee table. This isn’t that sort of story. It was neat, of course, but there was no other evidence to prove that this had been, in fact, my father’s home.
I quickly assembled three boxes and labeled them “donate,” “sell,” and “discard.” There would be no “keep” box. I began in the living room, tossing magazines in the “discard” box (Reader’s Digest, Outdoor Life). Clock, books, telephone: “donate.” There was a discarded gum wrapper on the end-table. I quickly popped it in my mouth and swallowed. I scribbled “donate” on Post-it notes and pasted them to the couch, umbrella stand, coffee table.
Feeling efficient, I moved to the kitchen. I emptied the fridge first (tomatoes, quart of milk, block of cheese) and then the cupboards (Folger’s, Saltines, canned ravioli). Dishes: “donate.” Ah: even the most disciplined of men still have a junk drawer. No, I didn’t find a tell-tale passport or birth certificate… no shocking evidence of a secret life. This isn’t that kind of a story. I did find pens, a phone book, paper clips (I hurriedly ate one) and receipts. “Discard.” I labeled the table set and coffee maker for the thrift-store employees.
The bathroom wouldn’t take long. I swept the contents of the medicine cabinet into the “discard” box. The countertop held mouthwash, aftershave, and toothpaste in an orderly line. I swallowed the toothpaste cap and tossed a stack of towels in the “donate” box. Almost finished.
I moved to my father’s bedroom. His bed was crisply made, his worn slippers tucked underneath. They were not poignant in their shabbiness. Definitely “discard.” His bureau: socks, briefs, handkerchiefs (does anyone still use handkerchiefs?). Folded polos, button-up pajamas: “donate.” The top of the bureau held a key ring (two keys), a dish of loose change, a lone button (I eat), and a box of tissues. The “discard” box is overflowing.
And, two hours after I began, I am finished. I brush my hands onto my skirt and stand tall. I do not take one last, long look at my father’s smoothed pillow. I exit the house, pull the door shut, and lock it. I am not filled with sorrow or longing.
I take nothing with me.