It’s been over two years since my mom died, and I’m still baffled — literally baffled — by the things I end up finding meaning in.
Someone offered to take my mom’s bedroom set today. This kitschy retro-looking rattan-like (but not actual rattan) dresser, chest, and headboard:
I never expected that someone would actually want it. But, someone did. Three different people, in fact, have expressed interest.
And I’m getting fucking emotional over it.
Here’s the thing. This was one of the first pieces of furniture my parents got after my mom and I immigrated to the United States in January 1980, joining my dad in Troy, Michigan. He had been here since 1976 — and evidently living the life of a bachelor, as there really wasn’t much furniture that would work for a family of three.
So my mom got this bedroom set.
We also got these (now-hilariously styled) couches, also still taking up space at my parents’ house:
Anyway, this was my mom’s dresser and chest that she had for the entire 40 years that she lived in the US. It was with her from almost-Day 1, and … well, it has far outlasted her at this point. The rails on many of the drawers are hopelessly broken. The drawers barely pull out now. And when you force them out, you’re scraping wood over wood.
But, she never stopped using it. She never felt the need to get a new set. This set was still filled with her everyday clothes the day she died. (Actually, it was filled with her clothes still for a good six months after she died. But that part was on me and my sister.)
And for some inexplicable reason, my brain wants this all to mean something … that this was my mom’s dresser and chest … that it’s still around, long after she’s been gone.
And now that someone is going to take this gaudy set of furniture, now that I know it won’t get hauled away and thrown out in a few weeks …
Well, my brain is finding some amount of peace in that.
Fucking furniture making me fucking cry …
What the fuck …