A Fistful of Paper
It’s always the same when something ends. There’s a mess to be cleaned up somewhere. This is no different. The end – the mess, inextricably linked. What’s left? A fistful of paper, that’s what, and each piece of paper telling its own story. If only I didn’t have to clean up, this time. Why can’t someone else do it, just this once?
Here goes. This is so fragile. I can almost see through the paper. It’s been folded and unfolded so many times and the print’s faded to the point where it’s hard to read. I don’t think I’ve ever handled anything so old. “September 16th 1912, Birmingham, female.” That’s all I can make out, apart from her name. I thought I was done with tears.
A school report – from 1922 –wow! She was a quiet child who struggled with Maths, and so it goes on – her life replayed in snapshots as I blunder through the box.
Now it gets interesting. Two love letters, almost worn away to nothing, written from the ‘front’ in 1942. He swore undying love and wept for their lost child. He promised all would be well when he came home. I believe it was. She never told me otherwise, and I know they had another child - he sits across the room from me, unable to look at these memories.
Ah, the certificate of marriage, dated 1940 – she called it their “marriage lines”. I never really knew what that meant. Bachelor and spinster – what old-fashioned words, cold words almost. His profession is listed as “airman”, hers as factory worker. How she struggled while he was at war! Her eyes filled with tears when she told me how she’d slipped on the factory step in the snow, and then the baby was stillborn. There was no compensation back then. But nothing would have compensated anyway, would it?
Letters from the hospital, appointment cards, insurance policies – the list goes on as I sort and file each document. Those endless trips we made to the Pacemaker Clinic, over 25 years. She hated it, having that little machine inside her, but it kept her alive and we were all glad of that.
What’s this? Oh bless! I didn’t know she had it – the tiny hospital wristband which was the first thing my son ever wore, his name, blood group and weight written on it by the hospital midwife. The card we made for her 70th birthday with a tiny hand print inside and one of my verses. I can’t read that just now. I’ll just take a break for a minute.
My children’s letters to Father Christmas, salvaged from the disused fireplace. Their school photographs mixed in with the sympathy cards from the time when her widowhood was new. I can’t seem to focus too well. Let me just clean my glasses.
I’m nearing the end of it now. Across the room, my husband stares into space. I realise with horror that he is looking old. I suppose I am too, but I don’t feel old, yet. I add the final document to the pile before me and read the death certificate one more time. People will say, “She had a good innings. 93 years is a long time.” and they’ll be right. But, for us – it still wasn’t long enough.
It’s done now. The cleaning up is finished. The dead are buried – and the living? We continue to collect stuff in our own boxes.
Who will be the one to sort through my box when finally I am reduced to nothing more than a fistful of papers?
It’s always the same when something ends. There’s a mess to be cleaned up somewhere. This is no different. The end – the mess, inextricably linked. What’s left? A fistful of paper, that’s what, and each piece of paper telling its own story. If only I didn’t have to clean up, this time. Why can’t someone else do it, just this once?
Here goes. This is so fragile. I can almost see through the paper. It’s been folded and unfolded so many times and the print’s faded to the point where it’s hard to read. I don’t think I’ve ever handled anything so old. “September 16th 1912, Birmingham, female.” That’s all I can make out, apart from her name. I thought I was done with tears.
A school report – from 1922 –wow! She was a quiet child who struggled with Maths, and so it goes on – her life replayed in snapshots as I blunder through the box.
Now it gets interesting. Two love letters, almost worn away to nothing, written from the ‘front’ in 1942. He swore undying love and wept for their lost child. He promised all would be well when he came home. I believe it was. She never told me otherwise, and I know they had another child - he sits across the room from me, unable to look at these memories.
Ah, the certificate of marriage, dated 1940 – she called it their “marriage lines”. I never really knew what that meant. Bachelor and spinster – what old-fashioned words, cold words almost. His profession is listed as “airman”, hers as factory worker. How she struggled while he was at war! Her eyes filled with tears when she told me how she’d slipped on the factory step in the snow, and then the baby was stillborn. There was no compensation back then. But nothing would have compensated anyway, would it?
Letters from the hospital, appointment cards, insurance policies – the list goes on as I sort and file each document. Those endless trips we made to the Pacemaker Clinic, over 25 years. She hated it, having that little machine inside her, but it kept her alive and we were all glad of that.
What’s this? Oh bless! I didn’t know she had it – the tiny hospital wristband which was the first thing my son ever wore, his name, blood group and weight written on it by the hospital midwife. The card we made for her 70th birthday with a tiny hand print inside and one of my verses. I can’t read that just now. I’ll just take a break for a minute.
My children’s letters to Father Christmas, salvaged from the disused fireplace. Their school photographs mixed in with the sympathy cards from the time when her widowhood was new. I can’t seem to focus too well. Let me just clean my glasses.
I’m nearing the end of it now. Across the room, my husband stares into space. I realise with horror that he is looking old. I suppose I am too, but I don’t feel old, yet. I add the final document to the pile before me and read the death certificate one more time. People will say, “She had a good innings. 93 years is a long time.” and they’ll be right. But, for us – it still wasn’t long enough.
It’s done now. The cleaning up is finished. The dead are buried – and the living? We continue to collect stuff in our own boxes.
Who will be the one to sort through my box when finally I am reduced to nothing more than a fistful of papers?