My elderly aunt will soon need to leave her home for a senior facility. I can only imagine the range of emotions she must feel as she looks around, deciding which possessions to take and which must be left behind.
At some point many of us will also need to sort through our worldly goods. I will start in the easiest room, the kitchen. It won't pain me much to clean out the utensil drawer, donating the melon baller and throwing away the messy wad of twist ties. Parting with my coffee maker may give me a twinge, but I'll get over it knowing the nursing home or wherever I'm going won't cut me off.
Winnowing through my gardening tools in the garage will be more difficult. I'll become sentimental and try to avoid thinking about how much I'll miss seeing my stepfather's hollyhocks blossom or my mother's "Jack in the Beanstalk" plant scale the trellis. It would help if I could pass the seeds or perennials on to another family member, and know the plants will continue to thrive.
Cleaning out the "junk room" will be depressing. I'll have to toss out the supplies from my "drying flowers" phase and donate my colorful paper from my "card making" phase. Nostalgia will set in as I bid farewell to my sewing machine and finger for the last time, the yards of fabric representing clothes I never started. I hate to imagine parting with the incubator which hatched out the comical runner ducks Huey, Louey, and Douey, and my favorite, the one who liked to paddle alongside our kayak, Happy Feet.
I'll have to cull through closets where I'll uncover keepsakes such as a box with cards I've received over the years. Will I have enough courage to toss the birthday sentiments, heart-felt notes from students, and mother's day greetings saying I'm the bestest mommy in the world?
I'll feel a hitch in my heart as I agonize over what to do with memorabilia like my daughters' worn ballerina slippers.
My mind will wander as I sift through my office, discovering favorite lesson plans such as nature scavenger hunts and using a magnifying lens to study the contents of owl pellets. My mind will flash back when I find old writing files and uncover my previous laptop with its folders of youthful impressions.
And what about all the books I've been privileged to own? Will I take Christy by Catherine Marshall, the novel that made me want to become a teacher? How about The Arm of the Starfish by Madeline L'Engle that enabled me to experience the exhilaration of swimming with dolphins?
I'll unearth my bulging "idea folder" filled with bits of papers with inspirational notes. How can I throw away undeveloped ideas such as a teacher donates a kidney, saving her student's life, or a child falls into a cave entrance and discovers a moonshiner's still? My chin will surely quiver as I sift through them. I picture my hand bringing the folder to the trash. But wait. Surely I have a bit of room for it. I'm not dead yet. Into the "keeping" box it will go.
Analyzing over 30 photo albums will seem like an impossible task. But I'll need to pull out only the most precious pictures and limit myself to only a few albums. I'll make sure they include family and friends of my past and present, and visual images of funny anecdotes sure to inspire story telling.
I may have to find a home for my canaries. If I'm lucky, my future room will have a window and I'll be able to recall my feathered friends as I watch the wild chickadees, robins, and finches. It's hard to predict if I'll have a beloved dog at that time, but if I do, maybe she'll be able to visit.
So there I will be, in a sunny room I hope, surrounded by a few treasured books, photo albums, and my idea folder. And when someone stops by, I'll say "Sit here," and grab an album. "Want to look with me?"
Together we'll revisit the pages of a life.