Baskets

After my parents died, my siblings and I distributed their things among ourselves. 

Once the most meaningful objects were doled out, my older sister was insistent we all share the other bits - the odds and ends of their lives together. She was persistent despite our promising we didn’t want more baskets, dishware, sweaters, stuff.

She was totally right. 

Joyfully, as a consequence, I have pieces of my parents everywhere I turn. 

I see a photograph and smile at the memory; I pick up my father’s office pen and channel him as I prepare to write; I touch my mother’s textiles - feel her surrounding me as I wrap myself in her coat; open my father’s books and run my fingers down pages I know he touched.

And every time I FaceTime or Zoom with my siblings - or better yet, find myself in their homes - I experience a whole new memory of my parents reflected in the items scattered throughout various rooms.

I count myself lucky to have people in my life helping me see what I can't - even when I'm sure I see it all.