Valverde Maclean
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1 The Little Box
It all began with my mother’s death.
Even the day seemed to suit the occasion. It was a Melbourne day of changes, at times grey, miserable and overcast, at other times bright and sunny, but always with that chill that can come on a late April afternoon. Little did I realise how that day would change my life, or where it would take me.
For the three of us Finley children, it had been a day of high emotion. We’d cried. Well, we two girls had cried, not so much my brother. At other times we’d laughed. We’d relived memories of good times and bad, of holidays and of school days. And of our parents, especially our mother. After all, that was why we were here in her room at what the management referred to as a Lifestyle Resort but our mum disparagingly called “a halfway house for half-deads”. Considering how bright and active, although frail, she had been until the last weeks before her death, it seemed an inappropriate, but typical, comment from her.
Now, we three siblings had the job of removing her possessions so the next eager and hopeful person on the waitlist could take up residency. Our mother had been very strict on what she had taken with her when she had moved into the aged care home. The family had already been given the best of her furniture and most of her treasured possessions—whether we wanted them or not. “I’ll not have my children fighting over my effects like some families I know.” Our mother had always been an organised and practical person, rarely emotional, although we had never had any reason to doubt her love for us.
It was the old brown cardboard box that started my search. It was a shoe box, the sort that people once used to store memories, which changed our lives. My sister, Margaret, remembered once seeing it being carefully transferred as my mother had moved from the family home to come to live with me. Neither my brother nor I had ever seen it. Margaret had not given it much thought at the time, but was a little puzzled as our mother had been insistent on not wanting to take “all those knick-knacks and junk with me to Elizabeth’s”. Yet she had taken the old shoebox. And she had kept it with her when she’d moved into the aged care home. It was so unlike her.
“What are you going to do with it? Does it go in the pile for the rubbish?” It was John, my brother, who as usual, was looking for a quick decision.
It all began with my mother’s death.
Even the day seemed to suit the occasion. It was a Melbourne day of changes, at times grey, miserable and overcast, at other times bright and sunny, but always with that chill that can come on a late April afternoon. Little did I realise how that day would change my life, or where it would take me.
For the three of us Finley children, it had been a day of high emotion. We’d cried. Well, we two girls had cried, not so much my brother. At other times we’d laughed. We’d relived memories of good times and bad, of holidays and of school days. And of our parents, especially our mother. After all, that was why we were here in her room at what the management referred to as a Lifestyle Resort but our mum disparagingly called “a halfway house for half-deads”. Considering how bright and active, although frail, she had been until the last weeks before her death, it seemed an inappropriate, but typical, comment from her.
Now, we three siblings had the job of removing her possessions so the next eager and hopeful person on the waitlist could take up residency. Our mother had been very strict on what she had taken with her when she had moved into the aged care home. The family had already been given the best of her furniture and most of her treasured possessions—whether we wanted them or not. “I’ll not have my children fighting over my effects like some families I know.” Our mother had always been an organised and practical person, rarely emotional, although we had never had any reason to doubt her love for us.
It was the old brown cardboard box that started my search. It was a shoe box, the sort that people once used to store memories, which changed our lives. My sister, Margaret, remembered once seeing it being carefully transferred as my mother had moved from the family home to come to live with me. Neither my brother nor I had ever seen it. Margaret had not given it much thought at the time, but was a little puzzled as our mother had been insistent on not wanting to take “all those knick-knacks and junk with me to Elizabeth’s”. Yet she had taken the old shoebox. And she had kept it with her when she’d moved into the aged care home. It was so unlike her.
“What are you going to do with it? Does it go in the pile for the rubbish?” It was John, my brother, who as usual, was looking for a quick decision.