Cathy, a friend of mine, faced the sad responsibility of sorting through her deceased mother’s belongings and gathering items her brothers requested. They lived in other states and visited their mom infrequently. After her father’s death a couple of years ago, Cathy tried, without success to get her brothers to visit more often or, by herself, lift her mother’s failing spirits.
As Cathy rummaged through the house, she checked off the list of things for her brothers. They both wanted some old photos that Cathy remembered her mother said she stored in a bureau in the attic.
Never before taking the time to go through the photos, she gazed at the black and whites, reminiscing, poignantly reminded that yet another loved one so alive and happy in the pictures was silent and gone. Gathering a cross-section that spanned family members and time, she completed her task and wondered what special things her mothers stored in other drawers.
The first thing that impressed her was the floral fragrance released as she pulled open a drawer. Reaching in, she felt silky, cool material that slipped from her hand as she lifted it. Grasping with gentle fingers, she pulled out one piece of fine women’s wear after another, things she could not imagine her mother wearing. Peach colored slips, lacy negligees, not so many that she couldn’t number but enough to know that years of presents had been stored in there. And an unopened box.
Feeling guilty, as though invading her deceased mother’s privacy, Cathy opened the box. Inside was a note addressed to her mother, and a gown. Cathy recognized her father’s handwriting: “You are still the one for me. Love, Bob.” Cathy’s fingers shook as she lifted the floor-length gown and it cascaded, a deep shimmering red. Spaghetti straps, lace bodice, “…even my husband has never me bought one like Dad bought Mom!” Cathy said when she told me about it.
“I was touched by my father’s love and embarrassed that I discovered so personal an item. Knowing how modest my mother was, I imagined her face probably turned that shade of red when he gave it to her.” Cathy laughed then suddenly became quiet, her expression sad. She looked away from me and when she looked back, her eyes were filled with tears.
Concerned for my friend, I reached for her hand. As tears fell, she said, “Then I realized the implication of finding it there, in the box, in the attic.” She hesitated, then continued. “My mother never wore it for him. Not once.” With no trace of bitterness, she added, “I bet that she was saving it for a special occasion.”
The impact of her words silenced both of us. How many times had we spoken or thought those same words?
My brother sent me a set of hand painted china when he was stationed in Vietnam. Opened, admired, re-packed. Cathy’s favorite aunt gave her a handmade quilt, now preserved in a cedar chest. We shared the mistaken belief that special occasions somehow announce themselves in bold and unmistakable ways. For years, we’ve waited for special occasions to grab us by the arm, look us in the eye and announce, “Now is the time.”
Is this a carry-over from childhood, that we still hope with expectancy that someone comes along and makes things happen, not yet fully realizing that it is us, Cathy and I, who now hold the responsibility of making those moments happen?
After Cathy’s discover, I unpacked the china set and used it for good report cards (or even improved ones), for my son’s soccer team win, or just because.
Cathy couldn’t bear to use her quilt as a bedcover but spread it on the wall behind her bed. “It brightens up the whole room, doesn’t it?” Cathy said as we both stood looking at it.
It sure does, Cathy.