Toss the clutter; the real magic is in our memories

 

With the start of a new year, I decided to sift through the house, getting rid of clutter and excess.  Following the advice of famed author and organizer Marie Kondo, I was to consider every object and ask myself, "Does this spark joy?" If not, out it went.

I began with linens and toiletries. I found little joy. Odds and ends of hair products: tossed!  Old towels, serviceable but frayed: donated to pet shelters. Old bed sheets, worn but potentially useful as drop cloths: I struggled with myself, and kept only one.

Next, I tackled my clothes, and soon had a heap on the floor: the scratchy sweater, some faded knits, and anything I'd want my husband to throw out if it were his.  

Turtlenecks I buried deep in a drawer to await my post hot-flash life.  But as I did, I caught sight of a small bag tucked far in the back. I knew exactly what was in it, and my heart dropped.

I half-reached for it, then hesitated. For long moments I knelt there, my hand hovering; finally, I picked up the bag and sat on the floor. Drawing out two pieces of clothing, I held them on my lap. 

Maybe it was time to part with these, I thought. Over the years, every time I happened to see them, I felt so sad.

The yellowed t-shirt belonged to my father. Decades ago I bought a plain white shirt and cross-stitched a cow across the front--a cow, because he had a dairy farm; just a silly gift. Dad must have worn it hundreds of times, mostly to bed; the knit was comfortable, light and soft. I ran my fingers over the cross-stitched thread, thinking of my dear dad, his large, rough hands and gentle voice, his laugh and bright blue eyes.

Then I touched the soft blue and white nightgown which had belonged to my mother.

One late spring day I saw it in a shop, and it made me think of Mom's blue and white kitchen, the beating heart of my parents' home; the place countless relatives, neighbors, and friends stopped in for coffee sharing jokes, telling stories, and confiding troubles. I bought the nightgown and mailed it off.  

A few weeks later, Mom had a massive heart attack in her sleep. She died the next day, and left my father, even though he held her hand.

I sat stroking the clothing, thinking tender thoughts of my parents and the place I called home. That blue and white kitchen, the morning sun pouring through the open windows. Mom at the counter baking bread, cakes, cookies, pies.

Outdoors, the pop-pop-pop of the tractor, Dad standing tall, straddling the seat, looking over the fields.  The two of them walking back from the garden together, holding hands.

Raspberries like tiny red cups, and tomatoes still warm from the sun. Apple blossoms in a tall vase on the table. Homemade doughnuts in a yellow bowl. Hot cocoa and toast by my bed when I was sick. Dad coming home from work, always cheerful: "Hello everybody, I'm house!"

And then, the smell of coffee, the clink of spoons, and voices murmuring, laughing: my parents drinking coffee together, telling each other about their days.

The shirt and nightgown are back in their drawer. My husband understands. He keeps a pair of battered mittens he's had since was sixteen years old, a gift from his mother the winter before she died.

No, these keepsakes don't spark joy. But in a way, they symbolize absolutely everything that really matters.  Love, and loss, and even joy, they're complicated.

Life doesn't move along according to some chart. The big things come upon us whether or not we're prepared.  Usually we aren't. Life is messy. It's untidy. We muddle through, loving. And remembering love.

January 2019