Ninety five years

203 words. 2 minutes to read.

Before grandma died, she moved into a partial care home.

I’ll never forget the room she lived in for her last few days. She had a few favourite books, a painting, a sculpture she’d made in clay. There were some handmade textiles, and some photos, mostly of family members.

Nothing much else.

The room had a small wardrobe, enough for maybe ten or fifteen dresses and a couple of coats. She also had a small bedside chest, presumably for her underwear. Her shoes – five pair – were lined up neatly beneath her bed.

This was the sum of the belongings of a woman over ninety. She was an educated woman with an amazing mind and a wonderful humour about her who added value to the lives of everyone she knew.

Even now, fifteen years after her death, so many people remember her.

I don’t know what happened to her belongings. Presumably they were shared out among family members, or given away.

I do know that she gave me memories that made me a richer, better person.

Why I’m talking about this? Because her life – and her end – is a lesson to me. She taught me – and keeps on teaching me – that it’s not the stuff we leave behind that matters.

what we leave behind