I sit in my mother’s den at her phone, typing. The people from Christie’s are here, as are the lawyer and the financial adviser, wonderful people all. They go about their business of processing my mother into the appropriate lines on the different papers that are necessary, all of which will be translated from English into Human for me later by my husband, who specializes in understanding the things they say.
I spent a fair bit of the morning trying to work out what they were saying, too. It seems to be variations on the theme of “This is yours now.” And, unspoken, “What do we do with it now?”
I am not upset, offended, concerned, hurt by the process of turning my mother into numbers and estimates and paragraphs. I will at least be able to understand her this way, more fully, I think, than at any other time these last 47 years. Her opinions of things rarely meshed, at any point, with the things themselves. Dad and I quit telling her things on purpose because, when she didn’t have a fit, she’d invariably get it all wrong, and we’d have to spend much time cleaning up, correcting misunderstandings.
But shouldn’t I feel something more? No grief even yet, beyond a slowness of my brain to process information.
She had a surprising number of scrapbooks, all filled, for the most part, with pictures of her, or pictures of people at the event which seemed to center around her (both people and event). She liked to have pictures taken of herself. I have my own pictures in my head. No idea what to do with these old books.