My mother doesn’t live here

More steps toward the inevitable.

Last Saturday, we packed up my mother’s furniture and hauled it to her new house. My brothers and sisters spent the day arranging each piece in her new place, making everything convenient and inviting for her.

My husband installed her antique chandelier above her dining room table. My sister-in-law arranged her depression glassware in a china cabinet that I’d never seen anything but Christmas and birthday cards inhabit.
Familiar pictures found places on the walls and her refrigerator magnets were made comfortable on a new fridge door.

By the time we left with three exhausted kids, the new place had become her home. It looked like she lived there.

I haven’t seen my mom’s empty house yet.  I can’t imagine walking in and not seeing the pictures of preserves around the kitchen or the family photographs covering the wall around the fireplace.  I think until I do, I won’t believe that she doesn’t live there anymore. But maybe, I only need to see her in her new house comfortable with her space.

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