Some days or weeks after her funeral, I don’t remember which, we went to her apartment to help clear out her items. Her mother insisted we must take her clothes. Her things. They couldn’t go to waste at Good Will. We took heaps of clothing and tossed them in boxes and bags. Whether we wanted them or not, we were removing them from her condo and we would determine, without her mother’s teary eyes watching our 20 year old opinions judging the clothing of a 50 year old woman, what we would want. Extremely petite woman, I might add.
When we were younger, we loved her hand-me-downs. My first pair of jeans at age 12 were from her. (Petite. Right?) But fashions changed and tastes vary and while we understood her need for us to carry on her memory, it wouldn’t be through her clothes.
How bizarre it was to be in her condo. We knew she lived in Eagan though we’d never been there. How do you fit 10 other adults in a two bedroom condo and entertain them. There really wasn’t a need when we could rotate through our regular triangle of meeting places. Bloomington, Richfield, and Lakeville. Then Bloomington, Richfield, and Ramsey. And later, Richfield and Ramsey. Of course, as the kids turned into adults we could add our homes into the rotation, but now we were at the Bloomington, Richfield and Ramsey phase.
Her modest life. All that was left. In an echoing condo in Eagan. Her furniture. Beautiful. But less lived in than most. She walked to Japan for work. Traveled lots. Didn’t have pets. Didn’t marry. Didn’t have kids.
She was vibrant, kind, and sweet. She was more like a big sister than a mother, though she was our mothers age. It was funny, to flip through her CDs. I didn’t even know the music she liked was the same as what I liked.
In a box, where I tossed an coat, (which was quite huge and I don’t know how this petite lady even wore it) I found a tightly folded note. I opened it. I was sure it was a sign. Something for me to find.
It was dated a year after she found out she had cancer – five years before she passed away. It was like a cheerleader on paper. Her hopes and dreams for the life she wanted to live. Parts of it, I would say, she was successful in achieving and other dreams had escaped her grasp as she got sicker. And weaker.
Nine years ago I read this note. It was written on Radisson paper. From a notepad in Japan. I still have it. Physically and in my heart. A phrase she wrote, that jumped off the page and invited tears from my eyes when I read it (and every time I think about it) was: Optimism Always.
She was in her 50s, with cancer eating away at her body, so much life and love left to give, and so many dreams unfinished -unrealized, but she kept her head up and lived her last breaths with optimism. Always.
