We bought a little cottage out in the Cotswolds. It was being sold by a young couple who told us their mother had passed away and the family didnt need the place any more. Ever since the old lady died, no one had set foot in the house they only came to hand over the keys.
Are you taking any of the things? I asked.
Theyre just a bunch of junk, they shrugged. Weve taken the icons, you can toss the rest.
My husband glanced at the blank walls where once there had been rectangular panels the spots where icons used to hang.
What about the photographs? he asked quietly. Why didnt you take those?
The walls seemed to stare back with faces men, women, children. An entire family, generations of them. People used to decorate a home not with wallpaper but with memories.
It reminded me of my own Gran. She always had a new framed picture appear on the mantel: either me or my little sister. I get up in the morning, shed say, bow to the heavens, kiss my husband, flash a smile at the kids, wink at you and the days off to a good start.
When she passed, we hung her photo next to Granddads. Now, whenever we drive into the village which we now call our cottage we send an airkiss to Gran each morning. It feels as if the house instantly smells of warm scones and simmering milk, and her presence is right there.
We never actually met Granddad he was killed in the war but his portrait sits in the centre of the living room, and Gran used to talk about him all the time. Wed stare at his face and feel as though he were sitting across the table from us. He stayed forever young in the picture; she grew older. Their photos now hang side by side. To me those faded snapshots are priceless. If I had to choose what to take, Id only take theirs.
They called everything else junk. Everyone values things differently, but not everyone sees what really matters.
After the purchase we started clearing out the place, and, honestly, I couldnt bring myself to toss any of the ladys belongings. It felt like shed lived for her children and grandchildren, and theyd simply forgotten her.
How do I know? Shed written them letters. At first she sent them out and got no replies; then she stopped. In the old wardrobe lay three neat stacks of unsent letters, tied with ribbon, brimming with love and tenderness. Ill admit we read them.
Thats when I understood why she never mailed them. She was scared theyd get lost. She hoped that after she was gone her kids would find the letters and read them. In those pages was her whole life: childhood, the war, family history, the memory of generations. She wrote so the memory wouldnt fade.
I started to cry.
Lets take those letters to her children, I said to my husband. We cant just throw them away.
He sneered, Do you think theyre better than the grandkids? They never showed up.
Maybe theyre old and ill
Ill call them.
Through a friend we got a number. On the other end a bright, chatty voice answered:
Oh, just dump everything! She kept sending us those letters in piles. We never read them. She invented all that drama!
My husband didnt even listen; he hung up.
It would be nice if she were still here, he whispered, I dont know what Id say out of spite. He looked at me afterwards.
Youre a writer, he said. Write about her so she isnt forgotten.
What if the relatives get angry?
They dont read books, he sighed. But Ill sort it all out officially. He did he got written permission, signed the papers and drove off.
Meanwhile I went down into the cellar of the old thatched house. It was cool down there, smelling of earth and time. Shelves held jars of jam and pickles, each labeled in a faded hand:
Vans Mushrooms his favourite, Sunnys Chanterelles, Cucumbers for Alan, Raspberries for Sally
Van died ten years ago. Sunny and Alan are gone too.
P.S. Mrs. Anne Larkin had six children. All of them died before her, except the youngest daughter the one who called everything junk. Their mother kept labeling the jars with love. The last jars of mushrooms are dated just last year. Shes ninetythree now.
