Letting some of my mother go

Going through a drawer in a hall table inherited from my mother's home, I again came across her wallet. Filled with her numerous identities, it is a concrete touchstone and until today I have not been able to get rid of her. Cutting up her cards is akin to watching her die again, but I plan to do it today. There is her health card, her SIN, her car insurance, her hospital cards -- all evidence that this woman existed and lived a full life. Her hospital cards are next to her Rogers Video card. I did not know she rented videos? One thing that must have annoyed her (to put it mildly) was that the "Hopital General d'Ottawa" called her "Lilliane" Griffith. The french spelling. That must have been galling to such an ardent anglophile. That card will be the first to be cut up. She also had a plasticized card from the funeral home, stating that her funeral arrangements were on file with.....Always the most responsible person I have ever had the privilege of knowing. Even if she had drowned, that card in her wallet would have ensured she would have ended up at Hulse and Playfair, fully paid up.

But there was nothing frivilous in her wallet. No family photos, no locks of hair, no poems -- nothing sentimental because she was not a sentimental soul. I, on the other hand, still have some of her ashes in my lingerie (I usually say "underwear", but for purposes of this blog am endeavouring to be more demure) drawer because I cannot bear to part with all of her. I still take the vessel out and shake it every now and then. Morbid I am told; I don't care. Her wallet brings back memories of her death, when I stood looking at her in repose. Her hands now gracefully folded that had made thousands of meals, her nails that had seen so many coats of polish, her lips that had spoken such words of life wisdom to me, her lovely dress that had represented her ladylike comportment. All came back to me as I sifted through her wallet this morning. Tears well.

In the same drawer was a lovely note and photo sent in 1989 by the late mother of an old high school friend (later married and divorced from my cousin, but with whom I still remain friends). Go figure. I met Marjorie when I was a teenager and our friendship weathered the storms of various marriage breakups by her sons and me and my relatives. "It is wonderful that our friendship has lasted through the years, with all the happy memories and excitement over what is to come in the future," she wrote. A generation removed from me, we had much in common -- mainly a wicked, irreverant and lopsided sense of the ridiculous. Married to a descendent of J.R. Booth, the local lumber baron, Marjorie promptly installed herself as chairman of the board when Rowley died. Reminded me of Joan Crawford who took her late husband's seat at the head of Pepsi when he died. Marjorie was a force to be reckoned with. The epitome of politesse, she was as tough as nails. There she stands in the photograph, the matriarch of her brood, resplendent in an expensive blue suit, matching shoes and clutch that perfectly match her clear blue eyes. I miss her too.