Sometimes the easiest jobs are the hardest to do. For me, the simple — yet extraordinarily difficult — chore before me is sorting through four moving boxes. They come from a loved one with Alzheimer’s disease who has transitioned into a memory-care facility.
The boxes should be easy to deal with. Their contents are not mysterious. Halloween decorations, extra blankets, framed pictures, notecards, office supplies and a small collection of books; surely I should be able to integrate these objects into my three-bedroom house in one afternoon.
Instead, I let the boxes linger. They sit in our family room for a week, blocking access to the television, tripping me on the way to the garage and making the entire house feel sad.
“Do you need some help?” my husband asks after a few days of the boxes not moving. I snap at him, but then nod my head yes. After a 10-hour day at work he tackles the first box, while I throw together a dinner of sandwiches and canned soup.
Donate. Donate. Keep. Destroy. It is easier if I do not see. My husband has the first box finished by the time I put food on the table.
Going from four boxes to three makes the house feel lighter. I look at the remaining boxes and tell myself I can do it. Tomorrow, though, not right now. Tomorrow, when I’m fresh.
The next day there are a million things to accomplish besides deal with the boxes. It is imperative to organize the linen closet. Today is the day to clean the garage!
Yes, it would be nice to reclaim the family room, but do we really need to watch television?
Step around the boxes. Pretend they don’t exist. Abandon that part of the house completely. Banish them from my memory.
Because memories are the tricky part of all of this. Memories are the reason those boxes are so difficult.
Sprinkled into every box are mementos from the past. I find my college graduation program, birth announcements, cards my children made and notes I scribbled when I was 7 years old.
Tucked away in tissue paper I discover a V-mail, or Victory Mail, from a family member that served in World War II. It says, “I am sorry that I don’t express my appreciation for all you have done and sacrificed for me more often.”
I am sorry too. I am heartbroken that the person who archived these memories can no longer remember them. I stare at the boxes and know that someone who loved me enough to keep a letter I wrote 30 years ago can no longer address an envelope. Both the person who wrote the V-mail and the one who saved it are gone forever.
But I’m still here and I can’t be strangled by sentimentality forever. I have to muster up energy.
I rip off tape and slice open cardboard. I acknowledge every item and say goodbye.
Donate. Donate. Keep. Destroy. It’s not as easy as it sounds.
Jennifer Bardsley is an Edmonds mom of two. Follow her on Instagram @the_ya_gal, Twitter @jennbardsley, or at teachingmybabytoread.com.
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