courage to trash

For the last couple of weeks, this author has been reopening and sorting through the piles of boxes left behind by his deceased parents. This is the third time he is handling the detritus; the first time was shortly upon becoming an orphan after his father's death, when he had put every loose thing in the house into boxes in preparation for selling the place; and the second time was two years after the old drinker had ceased breathing, when it seemed likely that both of his siblings would acquiesce to jettisoning the property. He is glad that he is going back through the boxes, now, four years later, because he has gained the courage to get rid of stuff that has a bit of sentimental but no great monetary value. A dozen years have passed since his mother died, and he has finally reached a point where he is OK with throwing out most of the trinkets she might have ever touched, most of the papers she might have handle; they have lost the binding pull of grief, the sharp edge of loss. Finally, he is able to differentiate between things that are superfluous and those that really matter, such as her drawings and paintings, her wood-block prints and hand-knitted shawls. Oh, but where to put all this valuable stuff once it has been separated from the chaff and this house is no longer ours? Does it get shoved into a storage locker or into the basement of someone else's house? These are questions for another time. For whatever it's worth , this author has done his part in the painful process, said his goodbyes, and sorted out those few things he would truly like to hold onto; now, it is up to the others to take the time to repeat the sorting process on their own, to look through these trifling treasures, to take what things they want, and to burn or toss the rest. Catharsis lies in letting go, in clearing out the cluttered mind, in saying clearly Yes or No, and dealing with what's left behind. Aho.

mentiri factorem fecit – 場黑麥