Three Plastic Cups
It’s funny how when someone dies, or is on the verge of dying, people come out of the woodwork. A sense of entitlement that something is owed to them. Some property. Some material shit. You did nothing and nothing is ever owed to you.
People who are easily accessible and able to be there for you when you need it are conveniently absent through all the tough times but can free up some time when it comes to transporting valuables. Funny how that works.
Why do you want the things you want anyway? Just so you can say you have them. He who dies with the most toys still fucking dies. You want furniture? You want jewelry? Things that cost a lot or carry a lot of clout? Why? Take a fucking minute and think about it. Is it even for the memories?
Sitting here in Grandmom’s abandoned room it is, in two words, fucking depressing. It’s like a garage sale that has been picked over already. Now it’s just every day items, empty boxes and a few possessions that will be handed off this weekend. It’s a weird thing looking around at someone’s place when you’re all but positive they will never be back. Things are how they left them – more or less. Dishes in the sink because they thought they’d be around to wash them. To-do lists that will never be done. And just stuff. The chaotic stuff of every day life. It’s a place that has been lived in.
I have only encountered death a few times in my life and it only seems to get harder. As a kid, what did I know? Nothing. But as people you have loved and cared for throughout your whole life cease to be… It’s a tough pill to swallow. First Gram… A few years ago. I remember I was supposed to visit for Easter but she didn’t make it that long. It was a rapid and unexpected decline. I remember my uncle calling me from the hospital and losing the phone so. Cold talk to her, she couldn’t talk back and who knows if she cold hear me…. By. Aid my good byes, I rehashed all the memories th I kept with me since I was a kid. It was heartfelt and painful and tearful and on the balcony of my workplace. But we Pivnicnys are a non-emotional people. I pulled myself together, dried m tears and returned to work.
We went through her house after she was gone and I wish there was a way to box up feelings, memories, smells, childhood. The couches, the walls, the way the stairs creaked. Every part of her house had a memory attached to it. But you can’t box up memories, just stuff. But it’s the little things.
Here, now, looking through what’s left of Grandmom’s stuff, it hurts. She left notes on items saying who they’re for. What kind of horribly clarity is that… To essentially will your items to people and then just sitting back for the day to come for those people to collect. It’s morbid and it’s reality.
When I got here today I had something specific in mind that I wanted to bring back with me- juice cups. Nothing fancy, nothin flashy and nothing more thA ordinary juice cups. But they are the cups that Grandmom and Grandpop had when I was a kid. I remember the distinct flavor of the apple juice I would drink from those cups on their reclining chairs in the back room. It’s not much but it’s a specific memory that has always stuck with me. Of all the items kicking around, those simple plastic cups are the only thing I made a point to set aside…. Because its not really about the stuff. It’s about the feeling you get when you see the stuff and remember why it means something to you.