When my mother died in 2002, all the objects in my parents' bedroom that had once been shielded from our curious eyes were no longer private property. My father had died years before but my mother had conducted her life much as she had when he was still alive: living in the rambling house we shared with my aunt and grandparents in Washington DC, where, eventually, just she and my aunt remained. She played bridge, entertained, traveled, did all the things that she did but in a pair rather than a trio. The sanctity of her room, of their room, remained inviolate -- until it was time to go through the ritual of cleaning out and selling the family home. As the only daughter, much of that job fell to me.
Deep in the closet of my parents' bedroom was a crumbling old, brown leather, overnight bag. I had seen the bag before when my mother was alive. It was a kind of time capsule, my mother's repository of important papers: report cards and class pictures from my two older brothers and me, birthday cards, a few carefully crayoned masterpieces from elementary school, paperwork from car purchases, some house and car keys that had long ago been separated from their locks.
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