The Yard Sale

Today my sisters and I will be preparing for a yard sale.  It will be the sale of my mother's things she has held on to all these years that will not make it into any of our homes.  Although much of what Mom has has come home with us. We do have to draw the line.  I was over at the house recently by myself, the home I have only known as a child, and it was emotionally exhausting.  If my time isn't limited to 30 minutes I will be in a depressive state for who knows how long.  I am predisposed to see sad in things.  It is work for me to keep "the glass half full." I'm improving, hence the time limit on being there by myself.  What I tell myself about it all is "it isn't my home any longer.  That home and my heart is at West Meade Place with  momma."  It is the having to say goodbye on all so many levels that is so sad.  Being there with my 3 sisters softens the edge.  So I am reluctant to photograph this process and her things, but I am compelled.  I fear doing it because I may be going out onto a very delicate emotionally limb and I fear it may be disrespectful and trivializing to this part of  my mother's life.  As I am writing this it occurred to me to even photograph some of the things I have brought home already, like all momma 1950's style shoes.  My mother loved shoes and clothes.  I remember when I was little how beautiful my mother was to me particularly when she dressed up for an evening out with Daddy.  I dreamt of having long hair that curled up in a neat flip at the shoulders like my mothers, wearing evening dresses that sparkled.   I wanted big bosoms like her and to be able to wear calf skin gloves and high heels.  

A friend of mine lost her father prematurely 1 year ago this week and she took me to a stone bench she and her siblings had engraved by Bessie Stanley winning poem of "What Constitutes Success" and placed in the neighborhood of her childhood.  She felt so strongly that this wonderful man not be forgotten. Today the kids gather there each morning to catch the bus.  Where ever Donald is, he is smiling.

So part of me wants to record in my way this process of life and to commemorate my mothers beautiful spirit.  I feel blessed I get the opportunity to go through it with her.  I feel me growing, maturing painfully so, but with gratitude and love.