My father died nine years ago. Some years after he died, my mother emptied his Brooks Brothers pajamas out of the top drawer of his dresser to make space for a few of her things. Other than that, the dresser remained untouched. Mom eventually moved out of the house to an apartment in our hometown, and then two years ago moved up here to Sharon. My father’s untouched dresser went with her for both moves. When my mother died this past June and I was faced with the task of clearing out her apartment, I began with my father’s dresser. Among the treasures (and junk) I unearthed in that dresser was a large, obviously old, manila envelope.
Within the envelope I found a checkbook, a savings bank passbook, a bank statement, a high school report card, a high school diploma, a birth certificate, a teen worker’s permit, a tattered New York marriage license, an employee identification card. Here, in one envelope, along with a handful of photos found in another dresser drawer, are all the artifacts remaining of my paternal grandmother Nettie, who died in 1980 at the young age of 72. This collection of papers was what my father saved when it was his turn to do what I was now doing.
Sifting through the meager contents of this envelope, a thought arose so forcefully it was like I heard a voice saying it: Remember, this is how it always ends.
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