I never imagined it would be so difficult to see my parents' possessions in the hands of strangers. Not just strangers, but dealers, people who are hauling away carloads of oriental rugs and Japanese prints to resell them to other people. It's almost ghoulish, and I'm not dealing well.
There's no way on God's green earth that my brother and I could absorb the accumulation of over sixty-five years. Nor are we inclined to become hoarders. I have, however, learned a valuable lesson. My children had better come and get what they want now, because I'm not hanging onto stuff. Just because it's been in this house for years doesn't mean it's staying here.
There's something liberating about choosing who gets what while we're still here to see them enjoy it. Houses should never have floored attics. They're evil. As soon as mine gets emptied, the flooring is history. I have learned this lesson well.
Meanwhile, I just have to survive the next week. It's going to be a long one. Ghosts of the past are everywhere, and I really prefer the present.