so, so hard

Here I sit in the floor of Mama’s room, surrounded by boxes of her neatly folded clothing. I started with the closet… pulled each item out, laid it on the bed and took a picture so I’ll remember. Sort them according to dressy clothes, teacher clothes, and casual clothes, folded them all, and stacked them into their respective boxes. The process was going rather smoothly overall – a few tears triggered by a sleeve still turned inside out from the last time she wore it, or a linen dress with the wrinkles that evidence recent wear, like she only took it off yesterday.

As I pulled the last couple of items from the closet, I noticed a bag on the floor that had been tucked in behind her hanging dresses. I knew what it was. I knew, and I stood there and stared at it like I would a poisonous snake. I told myself I shouldn’t open it, that nothing would be accomplished by opening it. But I did. I opened it.

Inside was the nightgown my mother was wearing when she died. There are two small dark brown spots on the front, blood from where she bit her tongue during the seizures that came immediately before her death. Dark, curly hair still clings to the back of the gown. There’s a lavender knit cap as well. I remember pulling it from her drawer as the hospice and funeral home attendants were ushering us from her room. I handed it to Hospice Jo and told her to please put it on Mama, because her hair was coming out so easily during those last few weeks, and I didn’t want careless handling to cause any more hair loss. The knit cap has a thin layer of dark, curly hair inside, and more dried blood spots. I don’t know where that blood came from. There’s a wide-tooth comb and two small hair clips – items that we took to the funeral home during the preparation to do Mama’s hair. I insisted that I be the one to do her hair… during her final month or so, she would only let me comb it because I was gentle and didn’t pull it out.

And in the bottom of the bag, there’s an ivory sheet. I pulled it out, assuming that it was the funeral home sheet that they placed over bodies before they take them out of the home. I unfolded it, and realized that it’s a sheet out of our family’s linen closet. It belongs to a set of sheets that Mama and Daddy had used on their bed for as long as I could remember. Who got that sheet out of the linen closet that night? Was it someone we knew, a family member or friend? Or was it Hospice Jo? Or one of the solemn, faceless men from the funeral home? I don’t know. I was in Susanna’s room, huddled in the floor. Listening to the strange voices outside, knowing that they were there to remove my mother’s body. Seeing the shadows pass by the door and knowing what that meant. Hearing hushed whispers and a commotion of movement, which I was later told was because the stretcher barely fit through the hallway door. But somewhere along the way, someone pulled a sheet from the linen closet and laid it over my mama’s body.

And now that sheet is here, in my lap. How do I keep going?