In 30 days, it will be two years since my mother died. During the first year, I visited home three times. This was written the first time I was in the house with just my father and our memories.
My mother was a shelf-stocker: she bought on sale and filled pantry and basement shelves with canned goods and a freezer with the more perishable items. It took my father six months after my mother’s memorial service to eat all of the Cheerios she had squirreled away. Then he found two more huge, warehouse store-sized boxes in another cabinet. Continue reading