After the funeral, after the friends and family had said their regrets and goodbyes, Max collapsed into his mother's old recliner. Gazing at the surrounding furniture and belongings she had left behind and now would be his to part with, he realized that almost all of his mother's things were prized by her because they belonged to people she had loved and lost.
An old broken-down chest of drawers that her ex-husband, Max's father, had abandoned. A poorly painted field of sheep in New Zealand that her deceased brother had left behind. Her own mother's chipped china, and her father's portable phonograph. These, and everything else he could see, were packed with meaning and history, her story. How was he to sort through it? How was he going to know which of her treasures he would discard and which he would keep? They were heavy, laden with her being. He sat paralyzed and overwhelmed with grief and uncertainty, falling into a deep, exhausted sleep.
When he woke up, he noticed her purse on a side table, the one she had put down after coming home from work the night of her stroke. Reaching in, he grasped her Route 66 keychain and gazed at the safety deposit box key. She had told him that it was all she had left to remind her of Aunt Lee. It couldn't open up a box anymore and had no value, but she had kept it to make her think of Lee every day. Max slipped the keychain onto his own and put it into his pocket. It was all he would need.
Cynthia Cornell
