65 pairs of shoes, 9 never worn.
33 clocks, all with different times.
16 coffee makers, and 5 more in the basement.
22 jars of raspberry jam, dated 1972.
8 cats and 1 dog. At one time.
Cat hair everywhere, strands too numerous to count.
354 balls of wool.
3 pairs of nylon stockings, all with runs.
1 padded chair with a remote to help her get in and out of it, elevate her swollen legs and recline into a more comfortable sleeping position.
106 quarters which become 26 dollars and 50 cents after she passes.
5 tapestry wall hangings, reproductions of the 18th century French painter Watteau.
Under one, an upright piano she has owned and played for 58 years.
33 sheets of paper covered with musical notations of songs she arranged or composed.
24 poems I cannot bear to read because they are filled with lies. Yet written with excruciatingly true feelings.
1 old British Pathé movie clip I play on my Ipad. She is 17, singing with her two younger brothers. It is 1937. Dead now 7 years, there she is, swaying to the music. And though we haven’t met yet, she reminds me of someone.
1 husband, mine for almost 28 years, who says I should stop writing about my mother.
