Lifetime Debris

Today I helped to clean out another house of an elderly person no longer able to inhabit her space.  It is usually a her whose life is being boxed and removed, as women typically outlive their spouses; she is no exception.

Like most of the people whose lives are being boxed, we cannot quite figure out why they have the things they do.  Embroidered linens, several sets of bone china, some intact, others so chipped as to be unsafe, but still on the shelves.  Mismatched glasses, crab dishes, multiple salad sets, opera gloves; detritus of another era, another life and better health.

I always come to the same nagging, terrifying question:  when they come for my stuff what will they think?  Madwoman, followed by the repetitious "Why did she save this?"  and coupled with "What in the hell did she need this for?"

When I die I want to be cremated and I want my childhood stuffed toy to be burned with me. He must never be thrown into the trash (he is bound with stitches all over, duct tape to hold his battered fibers in place and carefully stowed for that moment, too cherished to be loved anymore).  The rest of my stuff will be up to those after me. In the meantime I should lessen the burden of junk.  I hope they can sell or give away my artwork, but again, it will not be my problem then.

What in your closet?