How to Say Goodbye
When Mother died a million years ago, I claimed a basket of hers as my inheritance. Round, shallow, lidded, its handle a tall arc. The basket was filled with potpourri. When ruffled, it released the scent of cedar. Ruffle again, cypress. Ruffle again, rose.
I didn’t actually see her buy it or watch her lift the lid to enjoy the fragrance. I had no idea of its provenance. As I staggered through high school and college — forays into the world and back to the parental home — Mother’s basket sat on the bookshelf near Wuthering Heights.
In 1994, I brought the basket into my adult life. Although my house had plenty of nooks available, due to my monthly de-clutter haul to Goodwill, Mother’s basket didn’t fit anywhere. It ended up on top of a kitchen cabinet, awaiting a permanent spot. Every once in a while, craning my neck to look for a seldom-used pot, I noticed the tall arc of the handle, the delicate weaving of my inheritance. I should set Mother’s basket where I can see it.
A year went by. I would climb a step stool, take the basket down, and set it on the kitchen counter as a reminder to give it a more honorable spot. I’d stir the potpourri. Jasmine. After a week or so I’d clean the kitchen, climb the step stool, and put the basket back on top of the cabinet.
(I donated that seldom-used pot to Goodwill.)
Five years. I should put Mother’s basket on the coffee table.
Ten years. I should put Mother’s basket next to the philodendron.
Twenty years. I should put Mother’s basket on the nightstand.
Thirty. I need to release Mother’s basket.
Every month I added it to the Goodwill pile. No. That’s Mother’s basket. I should find a spot for it.
Forty years. Last week, a charity sent their truck through our neighborhood for donation pickups. I wouldn’t even have to drive the basket away, just put it in a bag and set it on the driveway. The day before the scheduled pick-up, I filled a construction-sized trash bag with detritus from the back of my closets and put the basket inside. Then I took the basket out of the bag. I should put Mother’s basket on the bookcase.
I ruffled the potpourri. Cinnamon.
I should give away the basket and keep the potpourri. I spent hours scouring the house for a receptacle to fill with my fragrant treasure. It felt disingenuous in the end, giving away the skeleton of Mother’s basket and hoarding the soul.
After fashioning a cardboard frame to protect the delicate handle, I placed my inheritance in the bag, loose ends knotted.
My eyes brimmed.
Maybe I didn’t want to say goodbye to should.
I placed the the bag in the driveway and patted it.
Today, I stopped to acknowledge the absence of Mother’s basket. The house was roomier, the air fresh.
