My grandparent’s house is a study in organized chaos. Grandma and Grandpa saved everything, significant and insignificant, and we are left to sort it all–a task simultaneously both beautiful and grueling. The living room is piled with mementos, the bedroom is stacked with clothes. The kitchen is mostly intact except for the box where we toss flashlights when we find them. There are approximately six thousand of them in there. It is overflowing.
This afternoon, Dad came out to the garage from the kitchen, where he stopped to toss in yet another flashlight before stepping down into the path we’ve carved through the boxes of tools and costume jewelry and vinyl records. He cleared his throat, and with great emotion, said what we all have been thinking.