Shrouds have No Pockets

My mother is of an age where from time to time she will point at something in her apartment and say What are you going to do with this when I die? And because I am honest I say I will probably throw it out. And she typically does not just get angry—she feels hurt. My mother feels so emotionally attached to the “thing” she has pointed to that I assume she is of the belief that if I throw the thing away, it is akin to throwing my memories of her away.

She fears being forgotten.

When I was in Atlanta this last trip my husband and I visited Jimmy Carter’s Presidential Library and Museum. The edifice houses all things Jimmy Carter—everything from his report cards as a little boy to his Nobel Peace prize. There are letters of correspondence as well as the gifts he accumulated from all over the world. It is a monument to his good works and his dedication to human rights.

And that is when I had my moment of clarity.

Instead of upsetting my mother with the prospect that my brother and I will not keep every single item  in her apartment including the beanie baby collection and the Lladro Christmas bells, we will create a Library and Museum dedicated to her memory—just like Jimmy Carter.  We can display all the greeting cards she has ever saved as well as  her overfilled social calendar of bridge games, trips and dinners. And the ugly figurine from Portugal that refuses to break no matter how many times it is knocked over will find a permanent home where all of mankind may now try and figure out why she thinks that chachka is so beautiful.

Because recently I have been telling my mother that all the things she points to will be placed in her coffin—so she can take her things with her--like King Tut. But that is not a very practical idea. The coffin might not close—there are too many items. The pall bearers will have to sit on top to clamp it shut.

But the whole topic is silly anyway. The underlying issue—remembrance—is moot. My mother can never be forgotten—my blog posts have animated her in cyberspace for eternity. She already is immortal.

And things are just things—shrouds have no pockets. The only vestiges of worth are measured in the love you shared. As long as you have been loved, you will not be forgotten. And my mother has been loved—so she has nothing to worry about.