The memories we hold in the possessions we keep

Selling the home that my mother left behind.

My mum’s jacket.

I had planned to pivot a little this week and share my innermost thoughts on race, identity, heritage and culture. That was until the reality of ‘the next steps’ came into play with regard to the passing of my mum. That next step is selling the house she left behind. Sooner than expected, an offer was made on her house. As were her wishes, we accepted it. With that comes the practical task of rehoming her belongings, in time for a new family to move in and make their own memories within the four walls that were once her home.

While I know I have plenty to say on race and identity, I've not been able to articulate them. My mind is consumed by the practical steps needed to complete a smooth house sale, along with what it means on an emotional level to pack up and box the physical items that my mum left behind. 

In just a few weeks time I would have said goodbye to the home of my late mother. I would have said goodbye to a very physical place, that I hadn’t realised until now has provided me with some kind of comfort since her death.

Home comforts
Whenever I’ve visited my mum’s house since her passing, I'm able to create a fake reality. One where she is still alive, and just happens to not be at home. A version of ‘reality’ where we’re unable to argue and I’m able to take in the beauty of her possessions and the stories they tell; without the unnecessary distraction and pain of how she’d make me feel when I was in her presence. I could almost pretend that this is what it would be like to visit her, if we had a more pleasant and peaceful relationship.

Her house is as she left it and speaks volumes as to who she was, or a part of who she was, and how she lived the last few years of her life.

Her house is both familiar and unfamiliar. It is not the family home I grew up in and it is not in the same area that I grew up in. However, there’s furniture, ornaments and artwork that very much remind me of my time with my mum and of my childhood. While some items bring me to tears, I’ve been surprised at how most have made me feel so happy. Relieved in fact that they have stood the test of time and that my mum cared for them just as much as I did. Perhaps we had more things in common than either of us had been aware of. 

A photo of me, found while clearing my mum’s garage.

Happy memories
I almost gasped when I found a dark purple bejewelled Disney jewellery box she gave me one year. She had kept it. My mum has always been known for having a lot of stuff, but in recent years she had done several “big clearouts”. This involved her taking bags and bags of clothes to charity shops, giving items to all her friends and making everything seem suspiciously minimal, tidy and spacious. To me, the after effect didn’t feel like it was her house, then slowly more unique items that were very her started to reappear in the spaces left by the last declutter. After all those clearouts, here was my special little box. She must have thought it was special, too. 

I entered her bedroom and admired her large ornate dressing table, covered in jewellery, crystals, trinket trays and makeup. As a child, I always loved seeing my mum’s dressing up table. It’s where she religiously sat to do her hair and makeup. As she’d complain about it getting messy, I'd make a mental note to tidy it up for her and surprise her with my handy work.

The first time I had finished doing this, I was suddenly overcome with a fear that my actions would make her furious. She’d be annoyed that I was touching her stuff and interrogate me on whether I had been using her expensive makeup, but for the first time ever my worst thoughts did not come true. Her reaction was pure joy. “Oh wow Chloe, did you do this? It looks amazing! Oh wow, I love how you put my hair brushes like that. Thank you, you can do that again. Thank you.”

A small selection of my mother’s stones and crystals... she has many!

From that time onwards, giving her dressing table a ‘make-over’ became something I would do again and again. I’d do it to cheer her up or as a way to say sorry if she seemed to be angry at me about something I couldn’t explain. Regardless of that, I loved to do it and I loved to see her happy. I loved that something I had done for her had made her smile and had helped her to feel better in that moment. 

Admiring her style, and smiles
Her style was distinct and she had a flair for interior design. She was creative and liked colour, reflected clearly in the bright orange sofas and the bold prints on the wall. While I never liked how she treated me on the whole, I always loved her style. It wasn’t like mine in lots of ways, which I’d said is non-existent, but it was so clearly her. I'd love the confidence and personality you would see in how she would decorate her home. It was the same for how she dressed.

Admiring her sense of fashion was never something I tried to hide, but I always tried to understand how someone with such warm and colourful taste could have such an undercurrent of dark and negative thoughts and behaviours. 

Walking into her living room reminds me of the side of her that I couldn’t understand but I knew I loved. She was in her element while making her house cosy and visually appealing. She could always turn a boring spot into something of interest. Most importantly, she seemed excited, energised and relaxed whenever she was tinkering with her house and creating new ways to make it feel special.

The fear of making mistakes
She cared deeply for her belongings, which makes me incredibly anxious as I navigate what I can keep and what I must leave behind, never to be in my possession again. It makes me nervous to make a mistake and feel as though I’ve let her down by not taking the ‘proper’ care of the physical possessions she left behind.

“What if I box up items for charity, only to discover those were her most prized possessions?”

We had so much pain between us, I feel a heavy pressure to not get this wrong. I don’t want any more circumstances in my history that demonstrate how disappointing I am as a daughter.

What if I box up items for charity, only to discover those were her prized possessions? The pressure feels immense. I’m taking back to that first time I tidied her dressing table, worried whether she’d love or hate what I've done.

Right now, I’d rather hear her shout at me about what I've done wrong, than to have this silence. To live in an unknown space of if she is proud of what I’ve done or if I disappointed her, again, creates an abundance of anxiety. Perhaps I would be surprised to hear, like the dressing table tidy up, that she’s really happy with how I've followed her wishes as best as I can.

My mother’s front door… I’ve always loved the colour of it.

I feel naive, again, in not realising how painful and hard I'd find the process of making my way through her belongings. It seems obvious and I knew it wouldn't be easy, but I didn't think it would have the impact it has. While the happy memories are a pleasant surprise, they make me question myself and my relationship with her. Seeing her in a way a admire and enjoy, makes me worried that I was unable to see any good in her when she was alive. Had I been wrong about it all or of her?

Then I remember how I felt when I was at the receiving end of her temper. Then I remember the very real acts she was responsible for that hurt me so much. I remember how in moments of seeing her lighter side and acknowledging my love for her, my mind likes to play tricks on me. I’m so quick to blame and dismiss myself and it is easy to forget the reality of life with her when she is not here.

However, those items throughout her house have made me remember that there were happy times and feelings, and for that I am thankful. It doesn’t invalidate all I endured, but it feels important and healing to say that there were happy moments and traits I did love about my mum. 

What if you weren’t on talking terms?
It is also hard being in her house for another reason. For the last year of her life (not including the last days I spent with her in hospital before she died) I had not been on speaking terms with my mum for just over a year. I had not stepped into her house in much longer.

I feel like a trespasser entering her home. I feel as though I have zero right to be there, let alone go through all she owns. I felt terribly guilty when I saw a walking frame and hadn’t realised she even needed one. I feel like a bad daughter for not feeling comfortable in her space, or for not knowing that she had a huge downstairs cupboard filled with coats and boots I'd never seen before, only to be told that “she wore those boots all the time”. All the time, during a time that I had removed myself from her life. 

Light and dark
While I am trying to accept all that was and how I only ever acted in a way that I believed was necessary, stepping through her doors takes me right back to my complicated relationship and history with her. It feels as though it demonstrates how much I loved her and how that wasn’t enough for us to just be ok.

It makes me feel as though my being and my love was never enough; and that is how quickly my thoughts can turn from positive to negative.

I keep trying not to get sucked into a negative thought spiral, but being in her home brings everything back to the surface in a very raw way.

When I think of my love for her and how she has now died, all the pain she caused me just turns to pure sadness with a tendency to wish, wish and wish that things were different; but no wish will ever reverse what was, what was true or bring her back. 

Saying goodbye, again
”Selling her home feels like another goodbye. It makes her passing real in a very surreal way.”

A letter to my mum
If my mum were able to hear me now, I’d say… I hope I'm following your wishes in the way that you had intended them to be followed. I promise I'm trying my best. I’m sorry for all that was and I hope you’ve found peace. I hope you do love me and I hope in some other life we could have the kind of relationship with one another that we both deserve. I only ever wanted you to be happy and I love you with all my heart.

Thank you for reading,
Chloe x