Time Will Tell

Eleven days ago, I moved Mom into memory care, and I finally tossed all of the plastic takeout utensils she had been hoarding in her kitchen junk drawer. 

I say kitchen junk drawer because it is one of at least twenty junk drawers scattered through her house.

Today the house feels heavier than usual. The boxes labeled “KEEP” and “TAKE TO MOM” are overflowing with random oddities. Meanwhile, the “DONATE” and “TOSS” boxes are looking bare. 

This should be easy. Get the house cleaned out and put it on the market. In a seller's market that should be motivation enough. Somehow it isn’t. 

When I visited her yesterday, she asked me, “When am I going home?” I reminded her that this cozy space is her new home. 

She sighed, then promptly forgot why she was frustrated. Something else caught her attention. “Can you believe they let that woman next door have a bird in here? It squawks all the time.”

Focus, Pam, focus! Okay, let’s start with something simpler. I can clean out the refrigerator. Surely I will find just a bunch of trash in there. 

Expired milk. Ew. Toss. Moldy packaged ham. TOSS. Leftovers in her “good” Tupperware. 

Her sloppy handwriting across the lid mocks me: GOOD.  

No, seriously. She labeled the good Tupperware after I kept throwing away containers that got mangled in her scorching dishwasher. 

She isn’t here to stop me today.

And whatever moldy thing died inside this “good” one a few weeks ago? 

TOSS.

Progress is progress.

Maybe the bathroom will be a good spot to work next. Her master bathroom has a large double sink vanity with so many drawers and cabinets. I am sure there is a ton I can throw out from there. 

Whelp. Another junk drawer. Wait, maybe every drawer in this house is a junk drawer.

I did not expect to find a drawer full of vintage brooches, hat pins, and broken jewelry. This next drawer has some makeup that probably expired before I was born. 

Behind the cabinet door sits a large round yellow hatbox. I pull it out of the cabinet and lift the lid. 

An old, dusty photograph rests on top. 

I recognize the hair before I recognize myself. 

My first tap recital. Nine years old in full 80s hair and makeup. 

Underneath the photograph is something wrapped in a tatted lace doily. As I unfold the doily, my promise ring clatters onto the tile floor. 

I pick it up and admire the mystic topaz. It still sparkles after so many years. My very first high school boyfriend gave it to me. I was certain I had thrown it out when we broke up. 

I notice some crumbling paper-like pieces scattered throughout the box, probably remnants of some paper mâché creation I made in elementary school. 

I spot the first pair of glasses Mom got me in 6th grade. I run my fingers around the large, round metal frames. Nearly perfect replicas of what I expected my favorite childhood book character, Harriet the Spy, to wear. 

Beneath the glasses is a small, folded origami swan. 

I don’t remember making this. 

Maybe it was Mom’s?

I am struggling to go through every item she collected throughout her lifetime. Somehow Mom managed to fit everything she thought was worth keeping from my childhood into a single yellow hatbox. 

I need a break. This is getting too sentimental. It is almost lunchtime at the facility. Maybe I’ll go see Mom. 

I drive to the facility and check in up front. 

I spot her the moment I walk into their dining room. I sit down next to her.

She peers at me over her glasses. 

“Hi, Mom.” 

She huffs, “Becky? When did you get here?” 

Great, she is calling me Becky again. 

It seems my gray hair has promoted me from eldest daughter to much older cousin. 

“No, Mom. It’s Pam.”

She blinks. “Oh! Pam! Well, aren't you looking pretty today in that red shirt.”

“Thanks, Mom. You look pretty today, too.”

“When are you taking me back to my house?”

I still have not had the guts to tell her that I am currently cleaning out the house to sell it in order for her to afford this level of care. 

“Mom, I have been sorting some things at the house and came across this in a box of items you kept from when I was little.” 

I show her the little folded origami swan. 

Her eyes light up. “When we first moved to that house, you were afraid you wouldn’t make any friends. You were only seven years old, and it was summertime. We didn't know anyone before we moved here. You met Christina from next door, and she brought out paper and taught you how to make these origami swans. You were so proud that you made a friend your age. You gave me the swan that night at dinner.” 

Huh. I guess I was so relieved to make a friend that I completely forgot what brought us together in the first place.

Christina was such a big part of my childhood until she moved away in middle school. I haven’t really thought about her in years.

I smile. “Christina was a great friend to me.” 

Mom frowns. “Huh? Who’s Kristin?”

I look down at the swan in my hand. 

“Never mind.”

I tuck the swan back into my purse and pull out the ring. 

I pass the promise ring to her. “I also found this.”

She holds it and smiles slyly. “I remember the day you broke that boy’s heart. You told me to get rid of this ring for you, but it was too pretty to throw away.” 

I almost correct her. 

He cheated on me. I was the one who had a broken heart. 

But she remembers the ring. 

She finishes eating lunch and I walk her back to her private bedroom. 

Her setup is pretty nice. I even brought one of her small sofas from home that she loves. 

Lined up on her long dresser are items I don’t recognize. 

Two baby dolls. The expensive, creepy, lifelike silicone ones. Where did these come from?

I finally decide to ask her while I am getting her seated in her lift-chair. 

Mom furrows her brow. “Well, now I don’t remember. Didn't you bring those here? Or maybe Jack did?”

Jack, my father, has been dead for fifteen years. 

“I don’t know, Mom. I’ll ask around.”

One of the top dresser drawers is jammed, and as I try to push it closed, I notice it is getting caught on a remote control. 

Wait, no, a lot of remote controls. She only has one television in this room which she rarely turns on anyway. Where the heck did these all come from?

I shove the remotes back in the drawer and close it. Apparently, Mom can create a junk drawer anywhere. 

I give her a side hug and a kiss goodbye and leave.

Back at the house, the KEEP box is still overflowing and taunting me. 

The DONATE box is still nearly empty. 

For once, I honestly don’t care. 

I grab another empty box from the stack in the dining room, plop down on the living room floor, and reach for the Sharpie I threw earlier.

On the side of the box, I write: 

TIME WILL TELL. 

I stare at my handwriting until the words stop looking like words.

Then I place the yellow hatbox inside.