I was down at my parents’ house last week, doing an awful job.
Showing a house clearance company my parents house, having removed stuff we can use or sell.
It’s still a horrible thing to do.
“Here’s their life; their things; the stuff they chose. We can’t use it in our lives, so why don’t you rip me off by offering peanuts for it all?”— Bibulous (@BibulousOne) August 13, 2021
It became something that wasn’t really about the house at all. It was about endings. It was about how little can be left at the end of two lives well lived. It became an emotional challenge.
Their lovely neighbour invited me in for a cup of tea and some lemon drizzle cake, and another neighbour joined us. I was OK talking about my Mum being in hospital, I’ve got used to the idea of her being ill, but this was the first time I’d seen the neighbours properly since my brother died in very upsetting circumstances and, quite naturally, they asked me about him and about the events leading up to his death.
As often happens, when I find myself being asked to talk about him without a decent run-up, I couldn’t do it. I became mute, tears in my eyes, head down; examining my hands as if they might hold the secret to his resurrection.
I’m still taken by surprise by this version of me; the emotionally open version, that’s prone to find tears welling up from deep down at any moment; this person for whom the presence of others no longer presents a barrier to those tears.
It seemed to take the two kindly old ladies by surprise too. I’m around 20 years younger than them, but still of a generation when men generally don’t cry. They didn’t quite seem to know where to put themselves. They didn’t say anything, but just allowed me the space to pull myself together, and then the conversation carried on.
I felt closer to them afterwards. As if we had shared something.
I guess, in a small way, we had.
I like that my parents’ house is going to someone these ladies already know; a friend, in fact, of my parents. They lived nearby and my father used to play tennis with her husband before he died. She sold their substantial house and rented for a while. She’ll move in in a week or two, when the house clearance people have packed what’s left of my parents’ lives into their white van and driven it away.
The fact that she is so well known to the neighbours, and they were all such close friends with Mum and Dad, means in a small way that their memory will be kept alive for a while in that place. Perhaps, when they all get together with their tea and lemon drizzle cake, one of them will tell a story about Dad and his tennis, or about Mum and her embroidery.
I like that thought.
