The stunning shortness of time

In my hand, the two of clubs. I look at the table, recall my father placing his drink on a coaster there, and I place the card down.

In his hand, the nine of hearts. We discuss it, and he tucks the card inside the edge of the Grandfather clock in the foyer.

We are at the beginning, just in the front door. To the right, their office, to the left, the formal dining room. We walk on, unsteady but called on. We have to do this. It comes down to red and black. It comes down to a delicate awareness of emotion. He should have the leather wing back chair in the den, the one my father claimed as is own, save for Christmas morning when she took the throne. He tells me that I should have the tea set. I tell him that he should have the duck prints. I tell him that he should have the paintings of the boat. He says that I should have the silver.

Neither of us want anything in the house. What we want is them. Mom, Dad, their lives, our memories. Back. We want them back. We want the past but must face the present.

We stumble, struggle, both wanting to be anywhere but here, doing anything but this. But our family truth comes to this: we are dividing the contents of a 55-year marriage. Both of us are pale, uncomfortable. In all the value, it's a matter of emotional connection. The duck prints hanging on the walls of the den, the wedding plates in the Butler's pantry. The tangible details of stories we don't know, forgot to ask, will never learn. But try to cobble together.

We stand among objects we are called to divide yet remember when they were the moment lived. We stand among objects that stood solid as the backdrop of our lives, of mornings, laughter, parties, arguments, lessons, forgiveness, love. Moments of a family. Moments that wrapped around us and held us together.

In August, my brother and I had a conversation that I wanted to avoid and would have been quite happy to crawl under a rug and stay there for the rest of my life if my doing so would have meant my being able to avoid it. But you cannot avoid or deny the inevitable. The fact is that my mother's mental and physical health were at a point where she needed more care than we or the caregivers or the house could provide.

No matter how we tried.

She's in that place now. Safely, securely, well cared for. She seems happy when she holds my hand. She also seems lost and looks at me as if I'm the red star on the map that says You are Here, but the star is across the world from where it is she wants to be. I hung a painting she painted in 1971 on the wall where she could always see. A painting of Winnie the Pooh. I point it out to her. She looks at me and smiles, then drifts to sleep. I do not know if she knows that Winnie the Pooh looks after her. But I know. I've put it there and I know.

We moved her two weeks ago. The house was listed a week ago. Two days ago we went into a contract. In three weeks, we close. We have twenty-one days to dismantle, re-arrange, discover and figure out fifty-five years of marriage, while breaking down and spreading out those fifty-five years.

It falls on his shoulders and mine. We started at the beginning tonight. We looked at furniture with emotion, paintings with passion. We made it about colors. What memory falls upon that table? What conversation took place there, or there? What book was opened to illustrate a lesson or a point? What memory of his or mine saturated that otherwise meaningless table?

What to you is Mom and Dad? Place a card. Red, Black, and notes. These books should be donated, these golf clubs donated, this piece sold, this table to her, this couch sold, this mirror, but wait I love this mirror. A card is tucked beneath the frame and the glass. We carry on. These minks should be sold, these suits donated. This moment taken and held.

When I left the house, my brother reached his broad arms out for me and said, Well, give me a hug. I fell into those arms and I told him I loved him. He told me he loved me too.

For the longest time, neither of us could let go. For the longest time.