I emptied it all.
Three years, almost, I kept all those boxes in storage, afraid, reluctant, to touch or see the things inside the boxes.
How much and what can a box hold?
A life? A story? Millions of stories?
Pictures? Toys? Clothes? Memories? Nostalgia? Tears? Moments of bliss? Moments of a time gone by?
It felt strange sorting through the boxes and getting them out of the storage space (one that cost $90 a month, much too much for a tiny space, hence the move.) It's about time, I am somewhat ready, though the boxes will take much a lot of space in the spare bedroom (I guess there's a use for the spare bedroom).
I flipped through and rummaged through some of the folders and documents, and came across some papers, handwritten and computer-typed dating from 2000 or so. Analysis of my parents' lives. Mum was a believer in fortune-telling (not a big one), and at times, she would go seek out advice and direction. I browsed through the papers. To be honest, I didn't really understand it all. But the irony struck me... these are directions and advice for someone who is living. What use are they for someone who is dead?
I saw a picture, a group photo from probably fours years ago, taken in front of the high school where mum took adult "life"classes. She said she enjoyed those activities and get-togethers with local retirees. I looked for her, and when I found her, I could see this frailty... I could see illness has eroded her of much of her glow, her colours. Maybe I am imposing my thoughts and knowledge of what was happening back then, behind the scenes, back then in late 2011. Though she attended the classes and these weekly gatherings at restaurants around where she lived, she told me sometimes the pain of her tumour pressing on her spine made the classes so unbearable. She told me how she would sit there and sweat because of the pain and discomfort, and how towards the end she stopped going altogether because she could just no longer bear the pain. I remember getting upset at her because she would go out less and less, and I was afraid she would become a recluse and do nothing, making her even more and deteriorate even faster than usual. But what did I know? I meant well. But she was the one who felt the pain and discomforts, She was the one who needed to lie down and rest her sore, sore neck and arms and regularly take pills (that eventually lost their pain-numbing effect...) to beat the cancer and the pain cance brought. That picture, that group photo, told a whole story.
And there are many, many more items, pictures, items of clothing that could tell many more stories.
Who would know these stories? Who would care to listen to me reminisce?
All these items of clothing, pictures, pieces of papers and documents from mum and dad's workplace... what do they really mean? What significance do they hold? I sometimes can, now, hardly know their significance. Imagine ten, twenty years, imagine at the end of my life when I look at them again... what will these objects and papers mean to me then? What will they mean to anyone? Their memories of their lives are fading away with each passing day, each passing month and anniversary of their passing. For as long as I live, I will remember, but those memories will (and has at moments already become) spotty and patchy...
The storage locker has been emptied now, and my house is a bit fuller. Fuller and laden with memories, with items and with bits and pieces of my parents' lives, with the symbols and meaningful objects that shaped and were there at a time when we were together as a family.
Three years, almost, I kept all those boxes in storage, afraid, reluctant, to touch or see the things inside the boxes.
How much and what can a box hold?
A life? A story? Millions of stories?
Pictures? Toys? Clothes? Memories? Nostalgia? Tears? Moments of bliss? Moments of a time gone by?
It felt strange sorting through the boxes and getting them out of the storage space (one that cost $90 a month, much too much for a tiny space, hence the move.) It's about time, I am somewhat ready, though the boxes will take much a lot of space in the spare bedroom (I guess there's a use for the spare bedroom).
I flipped through and rummaged through some of the folders and documents, and came across some papers, handwritten and computer-typed dating from 2000 or so. Analysis of my parents' lives. Mum was a believer in fortune-telling (not a big one), and at times, she would go seek out advice and direction. I browsed through the papers. To be honest, I didn't really understand it all. But the irony struck me... these are directions and advice for someone who is living. What use are they for someone who is dead?
I saw a picture, a group photo from probably fours years ago, taken in front of the high school where mum took adult "life"classes. She said she enjoyed those activities and get-togethers with local retirees. I looked for her, and when I found her, I could see this frailty... I could see illness has eroded her of much of her glow, her colours. Maybe I am imposing my thoughts and knowledge of what was happening back then, behind the scenes, back then in late 2011. Though she attended the classes and these weekly gatherings at restaurants around where she lived, she told me sometimes the pain of her tumour pressing on her spine made the classes so unbearable. She told me how she would sit there and sweat because of the pain and discomfort, and how towards the end she stopped going altogether because she could just no longer bear the pain. I remember getting upset at her because she would go out less and less, and I was afraid she would become a recluse and do nothing, making her even more and deteriorate even faster than usual. But what did I know? I meant well. But she was the one who felt the pain and discomforts, She was the one who needed to lie down and rest her sore, sore neck and arms and regularly take pills (that eventually lost their pain-numbing effect...) to beat the cancer and the pain cance brought. That picture, that group photo, told a whole story.
And there are many, many more items, pictures, items of clothing that could tell many more stories.
Who would know these stories? Who would care to listen to me reminisce?
All these items of clothing, pictures, pieces of papers and documents from mum and dad's workplace... what do they really mean? What significance do they hold? I sometimes can, now, hardly know their significance. Imagine ten, twenty years, imagine at the end of my life when I look at them again... what will these objects and papers mean to me then? What will they mean to anyone? Their memories of their lives are fading away with each passing day, each passing month and anniversary of their passing. For as long as I live, I will remember, but those memories will (and has at moments already become) spotty and patchy...
The storage locker has been emptied now, and my house is a bit fuller. Fuller and laden with memories, with items and with bits and pieces of my parents' lives, with the symbols and meaningful objects that shaped and were there at a time when we were together as a family.
