We're our stuff,
and our stuff is us,
and our stuff is garbage,
not in a metaphorical sense
with regards to the quality of its execution
or its greenwashing,
but in the literal sense,
in that most of our stuff is trash,
or will end up there,
not while we’re here, of course -
in that case our stuff is valuable,
all of it,
the tchotchkes,
the gifts and family heirlooms,
the Chanel lipstick you bought back in college,
the hotel sample sizes you brought home and plan on using eventually,
especially the sewing kits,
they are stuff with stories,
loved stuff,
but once you’re gone the connection is lost,
and well-loved turns back into just stuff destined for the trash,
most of it,
except for maybe that lipstick.
I don’t have an external schedule of work, so I find that I’ve been floundering a bit since my mother’s death – though that period between death and memorialization felt a bit like untime, made longer for us by a weather-induced service delay.
My routine for the last six months to a year has revolved around helping care for my mother. This new reality is strange. And though I’ve had writing ideas and my computer is adorned with Post-it reminders thereof, and though I’m sporadically working on my memoir, I’m not back to writing as a routine. I stumble through most days in a spectacularly unproductive fashion, to be honest.
I might be being a smidge harsh.
But I had poetry show up yesterday, and that’s rare enough these days that I decided to write it out. I also cleaned up my mother’s bathroom and toiletry-type things yesterday. I’m finding the hardest part to be her hair. It’s everywhere, in every drawer and container. I’m not sure why it bothers me so much – I saved a lock – except perhaps that it’s a reminder across everything that she’s gone, and that cancer takes much.
header image: The Story of Stuff
From Famine to Feast. 
Beautiful post 👍
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Eh, so very true. When I was cleaning after my mom had passed, I went through phases of ‘there’s so much to throw out’ and those where I couldn’t get rid of things because I knew how much they meant to my mom.
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It’s funny how it can change even over a few hours.
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Some of our stuff is trash even while we’re still here. I hear you though, that’s one of the hardest parts I think, all the stuff’s that’s left behind while our loved ones are no longer here.
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It’s interesting, too, how quickly things lose their meaning.
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You’re describing grief and how it’s manifesting for you. I’m heartened to read that you’re still pushing through the grief and keeping your depression at bay. I’m glad you’re still writing in any capacity, let alone busting out a poem!
Definitely keep that lipstick—I kept a designer lipstick of my paternal grandmother’s and used it sporadically for a good 15 years after she passed…it was a lovely memento. They used to be packaged so beautifully back in the day!
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They did. I found a mostly-used bottle of Estee Lauder’s Beautiful as well. That was the scent I most associate with her, so I’m glad to have it. Scent is the memory you lose first, apparently.
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I’ve heard that. I think you forget what their scents smell like UNTIL you smell it again, then it’s immediately brought back.
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I think that’s a far better way of putting it.
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