One.
My mom used to tell the story of my early childhood love for books with her signature blend of love and humorous self-chagrin:
"I'd have just put all the board books back on the your shelf, Kate, when I'd turn the corner back into the living room and see you sitting there, with every single one of those books pulled out again from the shelf and spread around you like a skirt."
She said she eventually realized it was a losing battle, and got used to the books being out most of the time.
Two.
Sorting through her belongings is an overwhelming task. Fifty-six years is not a long time to have lived on this earth, but it is enough time to have accumulated hundreds of books and mementos and grandchildren's (or as she'd put it, "g-babies'") toys and clothing and snow globes from around the world. It's enough time to have formed lifelong friendships that still enrich her family members' lives. It's enough time to have saved and blessed numerous lives as a consummately professional nurse. It's enough time to have reared three children who have grown up, and who love others well because she showed them how to love others well.
Three.
I go through our Facebook friendship to find pictures for this post, and instead am once again pulling out all the memories one by one and piling them around me like a skirt. Her and Dad's trip to visit me in Morocco. My sister's wedding. My brother's wedding. Different college visits. Some memories surprise me, like little scraps of paper with sweet notes scribbled on them that you leave in a book accidentally. Some memories are not found in the search online, but rather appear as emotional remembrances that always seem to have undergone some sort of alchemy since the last time I handled them.
Four.
Memory is a funny thing. It uses time and distance to soften some of the hard edges of what happened in the past, whether we want it to or not. By her own admission, my mom did not appreciate my book messiness in the moment when I was a year old, but when she looked back even six months later, she loved what it portended about my growing personality and interests. Other memories take longer to get the patina of time and distance on them. Some will never become softer around the edges, and I would not want them to. I want instead to grow strong enough that I can hold all these moments inside me and not tremble under their weight.
Postscript.
November 2019, Marrakech, Morocco.
We are in the medina, the old city of Marrakech. The souks are filled with goods that their vendors hope will be irresistible to tourists. My mom decides she wants a metal lamp for the living room at home. She compares two or three options in the nearest souk that sells them, and makes her choice. The shop owner comes over.
"Yes, miss? You want to buy?"
"Yes, how much?" she replies.
"For you, five thousand dirhams."
"Mom, that's $500 USD."
She bargained a bit, got it down to maybe $200 USD. I can't remember the exact amount because I was focusing on her haggling style. She smiled a lot, but she also knew a bad deal when she heard one and wasn't going to overpay if she could avoid it. She used moments of hesitation to her advantage. When she and the shop owner finally agreed on an amount, he held out her hand for her to shake on it. One more moment of hesitation, then she joyfully shook his hand and smiled brighter than any lamp in that souk.
My heart is strained by your memories of your mom. Lila never held back but lived, really lived, in every moment. Thank you, Kate.