Leaving St. Louis

Last Tuesday I drove to St. Louis, if not for the very last time then certainly for the very last time in this phase of my life. I slept, in all likelihood for the very last time, in the house my parents built in 1958, we lived in starting in 1959, my dad for an all too short nine years—he died far, far too young, younger by many years than I am now—my mom until she died last November.

My mother’s house is empty now. Every stick of furniture, every cracked cup, every scrap of paper has been removed. All that’s left is the dust and the wear of more than fifty years of normal life, first by a family, then by an elderly widow. It has been cleaned as well as we are able, the walls patched and painted. It is ready for its next stage of existence, either to be shown and sold or torn down to make room for some other house.

My siblings have, each in turn, removed their last childhood possessions from the house and those things of my mother’s they will make a home for.

On Wednesday morning I went to the cemetery, to the plot where my parents, sister, and three of my four grandparents are buried. I trimmed around the headstones and knelt at my parents’ graves.

If my sister leaves St. Louis, as she has said she will, it will be the first time in more than 200 years that no one in my immediate family (sister, parent, grandparent, great-grandparent, and so on) has lived there. When I return it will be to visit graves, either literal or metaphorical ones.

I wonder if anyone but me understands why I timed this trip the way I did. I suspect not.

2 comments… add one
  • Barb Link

    I think we do! You have a constant reminder which you wear on your left hand.

  • Ann Julien Link

    Thanks for sharing this loving remembrance, and for carrying out this loving office.

Leave a Comment