THE WIND PHONE
My Death Cleaning Can Wait
Death, Cleaning, and the Alexander McQueen Skull Ring
My dad, the last of his generation, is gone. A year has passed. He outlived his cousins, his siblings, my mom, my mom’s family, and his friends…. survived only by his geriatric cat, whose job it was to see my pop through to the other side.
As in ladder formation, it is now our generation’s turn. My turn. I am the eldest of this crop of our family. Will we follow the rungs of the ladder to the top of the diving board in birth order? — or will tricks be played upon us, some of us not even reaching old age?
My brother and I have begun clearing out my dad’s house, which has accumulated sixty years' worth of possessions and memories.
My brother, more detail-oriented than I am, is handling all the bills, taxes, and managing probate. I am sentimental, overwhelmed by spreadsheets and talk of numbers. Instead, I set forth to cull an ocean of my parent’s miscellaneous items. Each letter or memento — even a box of bobby pins — triggers an onslaught of stories and melancholy. Mom always used a bobby pin to hold back the lock of hair, which drove her mad when it became frizzy in humidity — I found a packet of them in the sock drawer.
We siblings have to keep going; the house has been sold, and we have a deadline.
This experience is pretty universal to anyone who has had to empty their parent’s home. Some hire professionals to load all the stuff up and donate it to charity; others throw things into a dumpster. Some attempt to have yard or estate sales, but few people today are interested in accumulating old curio cabinets and silverware. Some try to digitize all the photos and letters. Some are relieved to simply dump everything and move on.
Some, like me, live in the past a good deal of the time. And for me, getting rid of things is an erasure of myself. Who will I be without this house and all that is entangled in the contents? This home is where I was a child, went through adolescence, returned again for safe harbor as an adult, and, in the last few years, spent blocks of time caring for my dad.
Just past sixty, I feel the burden immensely, all of these mountains of things. My mom and dad didn’t intend it to be so, but now my brother and I are stuck with their decisions postponed. Neither one ever wanted to move. Their credo was to die in the house, which we honored.
I think about my own situation. I, too, have a house full of stuff. I survey the piles of letters, books, and unfinished projects. I’m in a state of overwhelm. I do not want to leave the stress of clearing out my home to my kids. Either they will throw it all away without thought (one fear — nothing to remember me by!) or be resentful that they have to deal with it (another fear). None of it is worth much monetarily, only in sentiment. My kids aren’t sentimental, which is probably good.
I sigh. I know the next big project is my own cleaning—my Swedish death cleaning. Somehow, throwing the word “Swedish” in makes it more palatable, cheerful, and sensible, like the colorful rugs and meatballs at Ikea. Death cleaning is their cultural norm. Swedes are cool; if they do it, I can do it, too.
Start Death Cleaning, Margaret. The words rattle around in my brain.
I am not sure I can manage embarking in this process of letting go, shedding, and discarding for both my dad and myself at the same time. It’s too much; it’s monumental. So as usual, dealing with my own stuff winds up at the bottom of my to-do list, as unsavory as taking the dog in for a nail trim or scheduling a mammogram.
Recently, I was having yet another sleepless night fueled by dread at the thought of emptying out my dad’s house. I couldn’t settle, so I decided to scroll on the internet — not recommended by experts in sleep hygiene, but nonetheless... I began perusing Etsy (such an addictive Pandora’s box). I was searching for vintage Alexander McQueen, his jewelry and clothing is outlandishly expensive but I’ve always wanted something of his. Finding anything that I could afford seemed extremely unlikely. One of my favorite designers, he was an immense talent in the fashion world. I am fascinated by his visions, his brilliant and dark aesthetic, repulsive and beautiful at the same time. He took his life tragically young.
His work is known for its emblems: skulls, ravens, roses, butterflies; the colors blood red, gold, and black.
As I age, all of this imagery takes on increased meaning for me. Life/death/beauty / the macabre. And suddenly, there it was, on Etsy. A gem-encrusted Alexander McQueen ring, a skull with little flowers and a butterfly perched delicately atop the crown of the head. One hundred and fifty dollars — from a small vintage shop in Paris. I can do that, I rationalized. I deserve it. It was meant to be. I have lost my father, and now I am facing my own mortality. This ring encapsulates all I am feeling. It was four in the morning when I made my purchase.
Two weeks later, the parcel from France arrived. I could barely get the multiple layers of bubble wrap off, then I wrestled with the grey velvet bag which contained the treasure.
The ring is incredible. Though it has the imagery of death, the butterfly and the glittery eyes contain life. It is exquisitely detailed and heavy on my finger, as living is juxtaposed with mortality. This piece is not something for casual adornment. But at the appropriate time, yes, I will wear it.
I did some online research and found this explanation:
“A skull ring is a way of embracing and understanding your fate. While the skull acts as a reminder of death, it also carries an important message. Your time is limited, so you should make the most of it. Seize every day you have and live life to the fullest. Skulls can also symbolize the power of life. It is intended to be worn with the face toward the wearer.”
Seize every day you have and live life to the fullest. Skulls can also symbolize the power of life.
Thus wherever on the ladder I may be, however close I am to the top of the diving board, I must pause and breathe in sweetly. And perhaps inhale the fragrance of now.
My own Death Cleaning can wait—at least for a little while. There is life to be lived, and my father would want it so.
© Margaret Kramer 2024
