A Eucharistic feast

I arrived early, so I could have some time alone in Mom’s house before my siblings joined me to divide her possessions. Walking up the driveway, my legs were stiff, as if filled with fear or unresolved grief. The house looked as it always had. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought mom was inside, maybe sitting in the TV room playing solitaire, with her dog nestled against her leg, or puttering in the kitchen preparing tea for us with formal china, fancy cookies, and linen napkins which she adamantly urged me to use. I knew better, though. The house was empty, and I went to find the hidden key and unlocked the door.

My first impression was it smelled like her. Whether from lingering perfume, or years of overcooked casseroles, I couldn’t say. It didn’t matter. It was just “her.” A book she’d been reading was on the coffee table, and her calendar was spread open by the phone with her unmistakable handwriting. There were birthdays written in the top right hand corner of particular days (which she never forgot), and appointments made she didn’t realize she wouldn't keep. I looked at the photographs scattered around the house as if I’d never seen them before. These were the people she loved most, the ones she wanted around her each day. Mementos were also displayed like a museum, a collage of a life lived fully, causing me to stand off to the side taking it all in one last time before the sacred ground was disturbed.

Mom was not her possessions, but I could feel her through her things. The portrait of our father as a young boy hanging over the fireplace spoke of a love that never died, the martini statue with an olive that lit up spoke of her love of a good time, and the hand-painted hippo by a grandson spoke of her uncanny ability to multiply, not divide, her love for all her grandchildren. In the Bible, it speaks of stones shouting. In Mom’s case, her possessions sang, and it was a gift to listen to the familiar song.

I ran my hand along the fabric of her living room couch and noticed a pillow indented from the last time she sat there. I went and laid on her canopy bed, and, like a child learning to swim, wanted to doggy paddle my way back into the safest arms I’ve ever known. A 58 year old father, I felt more like a seven year-old son.

She was gone, but tables, chairs, and china would serve, like bread and wine, as reminders to those who loved her most. “Do this in remembrance of me,” the words go. Her presence would remain. Hearing my siblings arrive, I knew it was time for the Eucharistic Feast.