A simple, quiet corner.

A simple, quiet corner.

The house, the family home. A place of rest, of solace, surrounding by family photographs, mementos of vacation travels, little comforts. But, in later years especially, a comfortable prison.

It kept others out, but it also kept its inhabitants in, like birds trapped in a cage. And a moldy, dusty, static and spider infested cage, at that.

Where to even begin? It all feels oppressive, every object of my youth and my upbringing, laid out as if in a museum. And yet, at the same time, it’s strangely comforting. If I focus on each item separately — a lamp with a crystal figure of a child, and a large, serene, beige lampshade, its neat and orderly creases at the top, coming down to the bottom in perfect straight lines; a pop-art metal wastepaper basket with black and white film stars on the outside and crazy black, orange, yellow and red cascades of geometric diamonds on the inside, the outside with splashes of beige-colored paint that was accidentally spilled over it at some point over the long years — I can realize some sense of peace from within my current state of mental turmoil. I am alone in this house where once there were three of us.

In a few short months, there will be a multitude of strangers pouring over these oddities, these museum artifacts of the mid-20th century, considering their purchases, haggling about the price, and eventually, hopefully, carting away little pieces of our lives. The crystal lamp, which I have in past days grown particularly fond of, won’t be part of this untidy clearance of a lifetime of memories. The trash can likely will.

I look around the small guest bedroom where I find myself this morning, before dawn. Piles of old sheets, sell. A puzzle of two bluebirds in a garden that has been glued together and hung up? Sell. Until I remember that my mom and a beloved friend and aide put it together one day, and my dad decided to glue it to a backing and hang it on the wall. A painting of my aunt as a young woman (or so I thought; turns out it was of an unknown woman), painted by my uncle. Bequeath to my cousin. An early portrait of the Obama family, whom my mother dearly loved. Keep. A nightstand that’s part of my childhood furniture, beige French Provincial from the late 1960s, with tacky gold trim. Sell. Rustic vintage carved pictures from Israel. Keep. Queen sized air mattress with cotton and hypo-allergenic fill comforter. Keep. It’s a strange exercise, an odd form of grieving a mere two weeks after my dad passed away and my life changed. Every object I glance at, attach whatever memories I can summon and then, as dispassionately as possible, I place it in a category of “sell” or “keep.” Excruciating. But to let these feelings linger for any longer than absolutely necessary would be far worse.

I’ve chosen to sleep in the guest bedroom, even though I am not a guest here. It’s the only way I can keep somewhat detached and retain a piece of my sanity throughout this ordeal. Once I open the door, I will be flooded with my past and its accompanying tsunami of emotions. Directly in front of me, across the narrow hallway, will be my parents’ room, where my mother died and where my father slept for nearly a year after her death. His ashes stand waiting now, in a small, neat box in the walk-in closet, where hers had been 10 months earlier, as we waited for spring to scatter them. Another spring, another loved one to say goodbye to, in a nearby park where we visited when mom enjoyed greater mobility.

To the left is my childhood bedroom, in recent years transformed into storage space, the bed removed, and in its place, practical metal shelving. The desk and two bureaus are still there, holding some of dad’s clothing in addition to miscellaneous electronic parts, computer equipment, books and a storeroom full of supplies for mom, when she was cared for so lovingly by dad and a revolving cast of nurses and aides. It’s no longer a bedroom, not a place of rest and recovery, but a wide-awake, utilitarian reminder of the mechanics of their daily life.

So, you see, the small nondescript guestroom with a few creature comforts and decorations is my temporary sanctuary.

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