Searching for Rosebud
I’m writing this the week after cleaning out my mother’s apartment. She’s not dead, but moved into an assisted living facility. One that I understand is much smaller than the one she had been residing in.
This meant I had to go through her possessions and decide which to keep and which to pitch. The ones I kept would be shipped to her at her new residence (in another state, so postage was a factor).
I had an idea that this would be a difficult process. But didn’t realize exactly how difficult or the affect it would have on me.
When my husband and I first tackled the job, we packed the obvious things — clothing, sheets, towels. Personal possessions that might have significance.
I had an idea that this would be a difficult process. But didn’t realize exactly how difficult or the affect it would have on me.
However, at some point, it was the borderline decisions that nearly did me in. My sister hinted that the closet might hold all sorts of horrors, in that regard. But that didn’t turn out to be the case.
It was the drawers and random papers lying about that created the difficult decisions. So much stuff in those drawers. Stuff I’m sure my mother hadn’t looked at in ages.
The highest priority went to the photos. I scooped up as many as I could find. (And nearly missed a whole album, hiding in plain sight. Whew!) Pictures that went back 10, 20 years or more. A framed photo of my grandparents that I hadn’t seen in decades.
Then there were the letters. Some of them were the kind of letters I’d expect to see. Some old correspondence contesting a debt. A couple of answers to inquiries my mother made about a bank account she was (possibly still is) convinced existed in New York.
As I shifted through the detritus of my mother’s life, I came upon a hand-written journal in an old-style school notebook. (You know? The kind with the marbleized, black-and-white cover?) I opened it up and read a few pages.
As I shifted through the detritus of my mother’s life, I came upon a hand-written journal in an old-style school notebook.
Her writings were about average events. Even so, they were imbued with a sensibility that I both expected and understood. I found myself wanting to read more.
Bear in mind, my mother is not an easy person to know or love. I don’t mean that as unkindly as it sounds. It’s simply that she can be distant and difficult.
It was if I suddenly had a window into her mind, in a manner I’d never quite had before.
In her journal, however, even if she had nothing to say on any particular day, there was something about the way she said it that resonated with me. It was if I suddenly had a window into her mind, in a manner I’d never quite had before.
And the writing style and rhythm of her words. Was there not a resemblance to mine?
This realization hit me at my core. As a result, I kept the journal. My mother obviously hadn’t touched it for years. She’d never miss it.
This discovery alone made me redouble my efforts to find other scraps of information that seemed important. It seemed that every piece of paper came under my scrutiny. As if I expected to find a hidden treasure buried somewhere in the piles.
I kept at this until my eyes grew tired. Until I’d exhausted the possibilities, along with myself. I asked myself what I was looking for. What was I expecting to find?
Then I remembered Citizen Kane. Was I searching for Rosebud? Was I seeking the one thing that would sum up all that my mother is and was? And, in doing so, was I searching for myself as well? Or, at least, another clue as to who I am and where I came from.
The most difficult decisions were the books. So many of them hadn’t been touched in years. I had to fight to get some of them included, because the decision had been made that they couldn’t all be shipped. (I still feel regret at letting so many go.)
Oh, and along with the journal, I kept a copy of Waiting for Godot written in French, even though I can’t read a word of the language. It just seemed cool.
Looking back on it, I have to wonder. How could I expect to find any one thing that would sum my mother up? Can we really be defined by any particular thing?
How could I expect to find any one thing that would sum my mother up? Can we really be defined by any particular thing?
If we are, in fact, the sum total of our choices, wouldn’t that also extend to our things? In which case, can any of our keepsakes be considered dispensable? However, since this logic would lead to hoarding, surely there must be a point where you have to simply let go of stuff.
Maybe that was the point of the exercise. Knowing that these things may all define my mother, but aren’t so important as to hold the key to her. At least, not so important that they must be kept as if in a private museum.
I do know one thing. None of us can be defined by any one thing we own. People are way too complex for that.
And I can just imagine that after I die, if someone goes through my possessions, they’ll find that copy of Waiting for Godot and say, “Hey, look! She read French.”
PS: Happy holidays!
Originally published at http://randomandsundrythings.wordpress.com on December 24, 2021.
