deconstruction

Last weekend I began the difficult process of clearing out my late friend Cindy's house. This is the 3rd time I've been involved with a task like this, but experience only seems to muddy things. Letting go of material things is a step toward accepting the finality of the situation, so the mind begins to play tricks. "I can't let this go to good will, we bought it together the last time we went shopping." I begin to find significance in every little item. Holding on to the open bottles of vinegar in her pantry, my brain argues, will help me make better salad dressing. The kind she used to make.

The other thing about deconstructing a household is that our homes are reflections of who we are, how we lived, what was important to us. Which begs the question, how does my life look according to my home? Mine immediately says animals live here and all animals are welcome. Hopefully no skunks are reading this.

My home also says I'm not much on design--my spin is that I don't care much about material things. Truthfully, I'm lazy about measuring and hanging things and matching things. It all sounds a bit overwhelming. It's not that I don't appreciate the effort other people make to improve the looks of their houses. I just can't seem to make a decision (and haven't for the last 8 years) on what kind of curtains I'd like in my bedroom. And so the ugly mini-blinds remain. I have plenty of function, not a lot of form.

The best thing about my house is how much art I have hanging on the walls. I have a few pieces of Cindy's work, a few of my friend Leslie's and most of my husband Tim's. I always wished I could paint a canvas or take great photos, so I'm in awe of those close to me who are so very talented.

The worst room in our house is our bathroom. While I have a quaint 1945 ranch style home, the bathroom was redone during the style-abomination 70s, explaining the faux-marble sink top and the drop ceiling with neon lighting. Hideous. I know a woman who almost single-handedly redid her bathroom, which I never knew was possible, and it looks amazing. I would no more trust myself to pick out a sink than to drive a bus through Manhattan. And so the sea horse-tile remains. I still bathe daily.

I am forever grateful to my friend's family and her husband's family for allowing me in to such an intimate, grievous, profoundly life-changing event. I know she would hate to see her families whom she loved so much in so much pain. But she'd also be very proud of how respectful and generous they've been with each other and with me.

p.s. A quick update on my neighbor whose family lives in Haiti--all are accounted for and while they've got plenty more than remodeling woes, they are thankfully alive and safe.