Clearing out a parent’s house provides closure

A friend who lost her parents last year said she’s dreading the task of putting their house on the real estate market this spring.

I understand how she feels. At the risk of waxing sentimental, I believe the homes of our parents are museums of family memories — long after we’ve grown up and moved on. It’s rarely easy to post a “For Sale” sign at the doorstep of those memories.

I battled mixed feelings when our real estate agent presented an offer on my widowed mother’s home a few months after she died. Initially, there was relief in knowing my husband and I could finally surrender responsibility for the place, which had remained unoccupied after we moved Mom to an assisted living residence a couple of years earlier.

As an only child, I also knew the task ahead would be overwhelming.

Family archaeology

No matter how long you delay it, clearing out a deceased parent’s home is one of the toughest parts of the grieving process. Deciding what to keep, give away or sell gets complicated — especially when you consider the patina of family history that so many belongings acquire over time.

“Settling the estate brings us face-to-face with our new status in the family album,” explains Jane Brooks in “Midlife Orphan: Facing Life’s Challenges Now That Your Parents Are Gone” (Berkley Books). “For many of us, the experience is bittersweet as we are suddenly handed what took our parents a lifetime to accumulate.”

My mother was a born collector who left shelves lined with collectibles and cupboards stacked with sets of china. Not to mention all the larger pieces of furniture that would have to be sold in the estate sale.

Of course, I couldn’t bear to sell the grandfather clock that chimed

through countless holiday dinners with our extended family. And I had to keep the Windsor chair my dad favored — the one with the dark walnut finish nearly worn off its arms.

But I had no room left at my place for anything more. I gave whatever I could to Mom’s friends and others in our family, but the rest of her lovely things had nowhere else to go.

Sorting through memories

I never lived in the condo my mother had purchased as a widow nearly two decades before she died. And the larger family home I’d shared many years earlier with both of my parents was sold after my father’s fatal heart attack when I was in my 30’s. By that time, I had a young family and a house of my own.

Regardless, selling the last place my mother called “home” underscored the painful reality of losing her. Everything in it, from rugs to wallpaper, reflected her creative touch and personality.

At the same time, preparing for the estate sale also provided some closure while rekindling old memories — some of which were waiting to be rediscovered in Mom’s desk drawers, recipe files, and family photo albums.

I learned, for instance, that my mother had saved every greeting card and letter from my son, her only grandchild. Each was a handwritten testimony to the sweet relationship the two of them shared, even when he was away at college. I also found Mom’s last valentine from my dad.

Sometimes I laughed through my tears. Boxing a set of china, I found a message from Mom tucked inside the soup tureen, apparently intended for its future owner: “Whatever you do, DON’T sell this piece in a garage sale. It’s worth $700 on Antiques Roadshow!”

As I sorted through these treasures, I recalled the devoted parent and best friend my mother was before her progressive dementia changed her personality and reshaped our relationship. By the time she died, I’d nearly lost sight of the person she once was. As Mitch Albom wrote in “The First Phone Call from Heaven” (Harper), “Sometimes what you miss the most is the way a loved one made you feel about yourself.”

After her condo was emptied and the floors were given a final sweep, it struck me that everything I truly valued hadn’t been tagged and sold in the estate sale. My best memories were still in my possession.

A vintage cross-stitch sampler from my mother’s former kitchen sums it up even better: “Remembrance is the sweetest flower that in a garden grows.” It hangs in my own kitchen now.