Today I gave away pieces of my mother. The moment I pulled a stack of old, folded clothes from the corner of the small bedroom closet—items I had set aside for Goodwill—the decision was made for me. There in the corner, tucked into the dark, were the pieces. The decision didn’t take long.
Back then, I didn’t know what to do with my mother’s remaining items. The small metal file box, once holding her important papers, now held her wooden cross that hung above her bed, a statue of the Virgin Mary that sat on her dresser, her wallet that contained an expired driver’s license, credit card, insurance cards, and an “in case of an emergency” notice, and a small metal jewelry box that opened like an accordion. Five rosaries swished and tangled at the bottom.
I avoided the challenge of rehoming the contents. Who would want an old cross, a faded statue, or an assortment of rosary beads, once sparkly like gems, now dull red and purple and cloudy? Yet, one rosary was made of pearly beads. They were a gift my husband and I had brought her from the Vatican. They had kept their purity, stored in a small white box.
I reasoned I’d face the issue later.
Avoidance was easy; confrontation was hard. Besides, they still belonged to my mother. The wallet, the jewelry box, the Catholic things made it feel as if she was still here, though she was gone.
Beside the file box sat a few pieces of Wedgewood settled inside a small plastic container. An oversized glass plate encased in bubble wrap rested on top of the box and container. I thought it would be easy to find new homes for the Wedgewood and plate as I knew of a place in town that consigned home furnishings.
I thought of all the pieces of my mother that rested comfortably in a metal box and a plastic container. The few that remained sat parked in a faraway space in the dark. It was as if I wanted to keep them a secret and the memories of my mother hidden.
Mourning a loved one is a strange thing. We keep our grief concealed in shadowed corners, as if the darkness itself might offer us solace.
Gathering the container and the plate from the closet corner and out into my car brought memories of her out from the dark and into the daylight.
I hugged the container and glass plate, surprisingly light in my arms, and carried them inside the shop. I then gently set them on a nearby counter. When I lifted the container’s lid, a heavy scent of her Nina Ricci cologne and pine-scented candles was released among a few Wedgewood pieces—a pair of small vases and dishes, and a petite lidded box. I picked up each piece from the container’s bottom covered in the dust of Christmases past—white flocking and silver glitter—and set them back on the counter. I unwrapped the plate from its bubble-wrapped armor.
I pushed the items away from me and closer to a tall, blonde lady standing behind the counter, dressed in denim and black with matching black-framed eyeglasses. She picked up the plate first and ran her long, slender fingers over its delicate face, turning it over and finishing her caresses over the Queen Anne’s lace pattern. She then touched each piece of the Wedgewood, opening the lid of one of the items, a small diamond-shaped box. I wondered whether she expected to find something in it. It sounded like chalk on a chalkboard when she closed the box, replacing the lid. She then examined each vase, one with a narrow neck and the other, a wider one, turning it this way, then that way, as if it had sides and each side was different.
I was uneasy as she did this to the pieces of my mother. The very things that my mother saw perfection and value in were being scrutinized for flaws and less value. Silently, I defended my mother, one whose imperfections I never would have hesitated to point out during our contentious adult relationship. Now that she was gone, her perfectionism and insecurity didn’t matter.
“I’d like to donate these,” I said; “They were my mother’s. I wish I could tell you the plate’s history, but I can’t. I’m not even sure why she kept it. I think she got it as a gift at her wedding shower. Maybe from the fifties?”
But I did know why. The plate was unusual, and my mother liked unusual fancy things. The rims were turned up and crimped, and the delicate white lace inlay from underneath made it look like a doily was set on top of it. I kept the reason to myself. Sharing it would be sharing my mother with a stranger.
I took a step back from the counter, distancing myself from the pieces of her. I nodded and assured the woman they were for donation. As I turned over the pieces of my mother to the consignment shop, the woman behind the counter studied me and gently asked if I was certain I didn’t want to consign them. “Donation,” I nodded.
I reasoned that the formal Wedgewood blue pieces were more appropriate for the home she styled for her family back in the late sixties—French provincial décor — than one for my casual living home. But really, they were of her perfection, her style. They were pieces of her.
I then walked out to my car. Sitting there for a moment, I thought about what I had done. I drove away from the shop until I got to the stop sign. And then I cried. What have I just done? I asked myself.
Are you okay with what I have just done? I asked my mother.
Her perfumed scent lingered on my hands as they settled on the steering wheel, and tears of grief dropped to my lap. And then I heard her familiar voice whisper, It’s okay, you are letting me go, piece by piece.
Nancy Chadwick is an essayist, memoirist, and fiction writer. She is the author of Under the Birch Tree: A Memoir of Discovering Connections and Finding Home and novels, The Wisdom of the Willow and Mercy Town. Her essays have appeared in anthologies, online literary and trade publications, and other outlets.
