So take a good look at my face
You see my smile looks out of place
If you look closer it’s easy to trace
The tracks of my tears*

Warm, salty, tears slid down my cheeks and blurred my vision as I pulled out of the driveway at my Mom’s house. Several miles down the Northway I had to remove my sunglasses because my wet lashes were fogging up the lenses. The tears stopped, only to begin again of their own accord over and over again until I reached Albany. After that I put myself on auto-pilot and concentrated instead on the vehicle in front of me: our Suburban pulling a small U-Haul trailer with my Mom’s belongings. My Mom finally rested on the seat beside me making the journey to Jersey like she should have done in August.

My sister and I had a very busy and emotionally charged week. We sorted. We packed. We donated things. We gave things away. We laughed. We cried. We shared family secrets. We swapped old boyfriend stories. We found a few things we had forgotten about. We found some things we never knew existed. We bartered with each other for items we both wanted. By the time our husbands got there on Friday we had made a great deal of progress in clearing out the house. I can’t say I enjoyed the week but I did enjoy getting to know my sister on a different level.

Looking around my Mom’s house just before we left my sister and I noticed how sad and lonely it looked. We had removed everything that had made that house Mom & Dad’s. Gone were the family photographs and my Dad’s paintings that used to hang on the walls; gone were all the knick-knacks collected over the years; gone were her crossword puzzle books and in-progress crochet projects. All gone—it was just a house now and not my Mom’s home. But Mom is gone now too, so I guess that is fitting.

On that last night in her house I couldn’t sleep so I crept outside to the porch. It was crisp and cold. The sky was filled with crystalline stars and even the Milky Way was visible; it was a beautiful night. Not a sound could I hear. I talked to Mom and told her I hoped we were doing the right thing by selling the house. I told her lots of other things too. I hope she heard me because it made me feel better.

It was all so final. It hurts. It’s all about letting go ...

*—THE TRACKS OF MY TEARS (W. Robinson / M. Tarplin / W. Moore)