As my parents aged, I handled most of their care. My three siblings made trips to Birmingham as much as possible, but most of the responsibilities fell upon me. Each time I visited their home, I came away with strange things in my hands:
A half loaf of frozen bread, for my grandkids to feed the ducks.
An eyelet blouse that needed to be ironed.
An article cut from the newspaper about my son’s business.
Hanger ribbons cut from inside a new blouse (surely someone could use these?)
A new pillow my mother didn’t like (This was our third—similar to the story of the three bears, one was too hard, another too soft but the one that was “just right” couldn’t be found.)
I’d take the things Mom offered even though I might not want—or use—them. Sometimes I threw each away as soon as I walked in my house. I knew a time would come when I could no longer visit and accept whatever gift she bestowed that day. In this mother-daughter dance of musical chairs around inconsequential things, it was as important for her to give as it was for me to receive.
At some point the music would stop and I’d end up sitting in the lone chair.
Each time I came, another little pile waited for me on the breakfast table. A sticky note, written in shaky letters, listed questions or tasks to be done that day. However odd or unimportant, it was individual and meant only for me. My brother and sister got their own “honey-do” lists when they were in town. Although the jobs could be trivial or annoying, it meant my mother thought about me between one visit and the next. She marked each item “for Marjean” with unsteady hands. And, due to a fading memory, the handwritten list of topics reminded her what she wanted to ask when I appeared. If she didn’t keep that list, her memory flew out the window and all was lost. The questions refused to come back to her mind until I was gone, when another list was started.
She’d always been an incorrigible saver. She kept newspaper articles to read again or to save for “posterity.” She had a hard time throwing anything away and, because of this hoarding of precious items, downsizing into an apartment in a retirement home was a horrendous undertaking. She slowly and painstakingly examined each box.
“I don’t know why I saved all that.”
“Guess I won’t need recipes anymore.”
“I can’t just throw that away. Surely someone will want to read it?”
“That’s for Dwight, or Dalene, or Doug.” Each sibling had their own stack.
Other items stored in my basement were silent witnesses to the past. A large box of “good linens” were too nice or sentimental to toss. Kept through the decades, a heavier box of bound photography albums contained meticulously recorded captions. Another held “treasures” to pass down to family: A World War II era waffle iron that still worked—a wedding gift from my dad’s deceased oldest brother, Ivan, who raised him. A sterling silver water pitcher, carefully taped and wrapped in plastic. Two silver candlesticks that converted into double candelabra. A few antique tools from their childhood farm life in Kansas. Sadly, these possessions—prized highly by my parents—were valuable to no one but them.
And even though my siblings encouraged me to get rid of these relics, I found I couldn’t give them away.
As a child, I loved to write. Using a pencil, I’d carefully record my thoughts on wide-lined notebook paper. Often the paper had smudges or small holes where I erased and reworked a line or paragraph until it was right. My first poem spoke of boy angels who fashioned clouds into shapes for the delight of sky-watchers. Other stories described children my age getting into mischief—something I rarely did. The common factor to all the faded sheets of paper was their presence in my mother’s bottom chest drawer.
She saved them all. She couldn’t throw them away.
And with this simple act, my mother spoke volumes: I was important. What I wrote was valuable, my thoughts worth saving. My words meant something to her, which gave me hope they might mean something to someone else one day.
When I enter their apartment now, I’m greeted by the same words each time.
“Well . . . there she is!”
I stand at the door and wait for it, this validation from parents who have loved me my entire life even when they couldn’t say it openly. When they’re gone, no one will be able to say those words in the same way, with the same inflection and meaning.
There she is:
My daughter, the valuable one.
The bringer of smiles into a shrinking world.
The able problem-solver, computer-tech and refrigerator-cleaner.
The one who answers—or finds the answer—to every question on the list.
The one who walks away with what we have to give.
My words were noticed and needed even when, by necessity, they held a challenge. I would repeat instructions at each visit, attempting to imprint aging minds with information that no longer stuck. Mom would write the answers on yet another sticky note and place it on the kitchen table. Dad then attached it to the computer screen for future reference.
Even though they weren’t written in childish handwriting on wide-lined paper, my words were still worth saving.