Limited Time

I lied and called in sick. Well, I stretched the truth. I haven't felt well for months, but I have no reason to call off besides not wanting to go to work today. Instead, I take my children to school. They are thrilled to not have to ride the bus, especially when I add in a stop for donuts and coffee. Afterwards, I set up all my favorite songs for the thirty-minute drive to my mom's house. I suppose it's not my mom's anymore, but I'm not ready for that.

I should have done this over the weekend. However, between a baseball and a soccer game, and everything I have to do at my home, I didn't have the energy to deal with Mom's house. My mental bandwidth had been shrinking. Then it collapsed. I'm lying to myself this morning, too. I don't want to start going through her personal possessions. I don't want to clean her attic. But I have to. I can't put it all on my sister, even if she lives there. This is my attempt to trick myself into thinking I am doing something fun. I'll take my children to school. I'll listen to my favorite music. I'll buy a latte and add the limited time flavor. We all are living on limited time, anyway.

Mindy will be at work. It's another reason to go today instead of Saturday or Sunday. My sister and I have come a long way. I spent years resenting her freedom. As the baby, she got what she wanted. As the oldest, I got all of the responsibility. People roll their eyes at me and think I'm being stereotypical, but it's a stereotype because it's a common experience.

I married and started a family. She didn't. Her social media is full of all of the places she traveled to. I love my children. I wouldn't trade them for anything. But when I was rocking a sick child to sleep in the middle of the night after being thrown up on, she was posting pictures of Machu Picchu. I have forty pounds of 'baby weight' despite having teenagers now. She runs marathons. A long way is a generous statement.

I pull into the driveway and head to the kitchen to fill up my water bottle, tucking my ear buds into my pocket and navigating the small messes. She's doing a great job organizing everything, but it's still chaos. I'm not sure how she can stand living in here. There's a room of items to sell and another area of things to donate. Most of her belongings we have to still go through. I head upstairs. Mindy is sleeping in her childhood room. Mine is currently storage. We aren't ready to touch Mom's room.

I open the door to the attic and am hit with the sudden increase in temperature. I haven't walked up the steps and it's already five degrees hotter. With each step up, it increases. It even smells like heat. The odors become stronger as well. Cardboard, must, wood, and age assault my nose. The sunlight from the small windows bounces off the dust that hangs in the air. I still pull the long, hanging chain for the lightbulb. If I stay in the center, I won't have to duck. My back will not be able to take constantly hunching over to avoid bashing my head against the sloped ceiling.

I head to the far end and tug the chain to another light on the way. My theory is the stuff in the back will be easiest to get rid of. My parents probably walked a box up and set it closest to the steps. Most recent stuff closer to steps. Older belongings farther away. Or at least that's what I would do. There are several larger pieces I can bring down first. I turn on music and begin the laborious task of carrying awkward items down narrow stairs and setting them in my old room. In no time at all, I'm dirty and sweaty.

I recognize some things. I have no idea why a highchair is up here. Mindy's tricycle was hidden in a corner. I remember the day she got it. It was her birthday and she got a brand new, bright red trike with white streamers on the handles. Mom had found mine at a yard sale. It was squeaky and took a lot of work to pedal. I think that was the first time I realized Mindy was treated differently than me.

I suppose I became less resentful of her when Dad's memory started failing. Mom managed to take care of him until his dementia became too much. Dad took the keys, went for a drive, crashed the car and ended up in the hospital with cracked ribs, a cracked sternum, and a broken back. Afterwards, Mom decided he needed to go into a nursing home, which worked well for several years, and Mindy was an essential part of why. She told me I had enough going on with my house and two children. She would be responsible for our parents.

I stop working for a quick lunch, another cup of coffee, and to refill my water bottle. This isn't an all-day event. I'll do what I can until school is over. I return to the suffocating space and investigate what else I can complete. There are so many boxes. I'm afraid to pick them up. They are intact right now, but I think they will crumble if I lift them. The plastic totes will be easier, but that is not a task for today.

I poke around the back corners hoping to find something easy. Tucked away is a dark, wooden chest with painted flowers on it. I vaguely remember it in my parents' room as a child. Mom told me it was her dowry chest. It had been her mother's, my grandmother's, and it was passed down to her when she married my father. That doesn't seem like something I can go through quickly, but I can't help myself. I lift open the top.

Inside is full of picture albums. I shift through and discover a quilt, a couple older pieces of clothing, a few old toys and random knickknacks. I wish my mom could tell me the stories behind them. Her diagnosis hit like a bat across the head. We were blindsided and she deteriorated fast, but the doctor warned us late-stage pancreatic cancer could do that.

Mindy's lease renewal was coming up, and her landlord was increasing her rent. The three of us sat down and decided Mindy should move in with Mom to help take care of her. Mom willed the house to both of us. In reality, it's Mindy's house. She's living here. She's doing the majority of the work, going through the house, and fixing it up. This chest is still in good shape. I might ask if I can keep it.

I pick up a photo album and flip through it. It has pictures of my mom, my aunt, and my uncle as children. Another holds photos of me and Mindy when we were really young. One in particular catches my eye. My sister and I are in bright dresses holding Easter baskets. We are sitting on the couch in between my grandparents. Mindy probably doesn't remember them. She was little when Grandma died. Grandpa lived a year without her before he died, too. Visiting my grandparents are some of my favorite memories, especially around holidays. They were Catholic and we had to go to church Easter morning. I didn't like that. So much sitting, kneeling, standing and then repeating it again. But if we behaved, we could do their Easter egg hunt and look for our baskets.

I smiled. They gave Mindy and me the same basket. They were the same color and had the same items. We each had one special gift, just for us, but our chocolate bunnies were the same size. We had the same number of peanut butter eggs, the same flavor of gum, and the same mini candy bars.

I loved going to my grandparents. I loved playing with my cousins. I loved the huge ham my grandmother cooked and my grandfather sliced. I sat at the kids' table with Mindy, but I didn't care. I didn't want to hear the adults talk. They were boring. I laugh out loud. My mom always interrupted my aunt. My dad and uncle would chat about sports, especially during baseball season. I remember they smiled a lot at those gatherings.

I pick up another album, but underneath is a small, circular piece of wood. There's a handwritten address on it and a square that says "STAMP". I flip it over. Somebody wrote on it in ink and "Correspondence" was stamped at the top. I have to squint to read it. It's hard to decipher the partially faded and smeared script.

Dear Mary,

I can't find a bit of paper here to write to you. So all day yesterday I worked in the woods chopping down this sequoia tree so that I'd have something to write on. I hope you like it.

Love, Nelson

Tears stream down my face. This is from my grandfather to my grandmother. It's been hidden in the attic, forgotten in a dowry chest, for decades. I set it back inside, fall to my knees, and cry. My sobs are so loud in the silence. It hurts my ears. My shoulders heave. I can't keep my balance and flop to the side, almost knocking down a tower of boxes.

I miss my grandparents. I miss my dad. The version I grew up with. I still love the man in the nursing home, but he can be angry at times. The doctors warned us that dementia could cause mood changes. I miss my mom. I want the story of this little piece of wood, and no one is alive to tell it to me.

I adjust and bring my knees into my chest, wrapping my arms around my legs and resting my head against them. Besides my children and my husband, Mindy is really the only family I have left. My aunt moved away when I was a teenager. I saw her and those cousins once at a reunion. My uncle died in a car accident. I saw his children at the funeral. My father's brother lives across the country. I wasn't close to him. I think I met him three times in my life. I don't like the most recent memories of my mom. I want to remember her as she was in pictures, not how she was with cancer. If something happens to Mindy, am I going to be okay with where we stand in our relationship?

It's the sniffling after my sobs subside that motivates me to move. I grab the wooden note and head downstairs to the kitchen. After blowing my nose and washing my hands, I tuck it into my purse. I am glad Mindy has the house. We can take our time going through Mom's belongings. I should probably keep working on my resentment towards her. We are all living on limited time, anyway.