DEATH - THREE MONTHS ON

"I never realised how much I'd miss him!"

Peg. Almost every phone call. I remind her, again, that she spent almost 65 years with the man, why should it come as a surprise that she misses him. What she misses most of course is not just companionship, it's that he babied her, she says this herself. And I do know what she means. And it's nice. DK does the same to me. The type of men to stand in the drive waving goodbye even if we're just off to get gas, having gone out earlier to get the car started and warmed up for us. My father was devoted with a capital D, Peg's biggest fan. She was his everything. The finality of the loss of attention is I believe what's sinking in, realising that no one will ever replace Odd Knut. Well. Let us but hope. Am half poised for the email from Bonnie saying "Your mother wants to drive to Vegas with the Culligan delivery man's grandfather and his four Irish Wolfhounds in his RV, are you OK with this?"
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"Bob and Terri and I finally got the bookcases moved she wanted changed. Whew! I think we can safely say that your mom is now done with rearranging heavy furniture!"

Bonnie. Last week. Momentarily deranged. Which could be the only possible explanation for believing my mother will ever be happy for more than two seconds with any current arrangement in her full-to-overflowing-can't-swing-a-collie-in quarters. 
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"I'm sending Annie a key to the house."

Peg. Out of the blue, apropos of nothing. Three days ago. Momentarily or possibly more than momentarily deranged, thinking my friend, two hours away, and currently not speaking to me, would: a) ever in a million years need it; or b) want it. Besides which, anyone really really wanting access to the house can crawl in the dog door, burglars and axe murderers take note (and suck in your stomach). "Any particular reason?" I asked. "So she knows she's welcome here if she wants a vacation!" Am trying to get past the idea of anyone anywhere thinking Hawaii? Italy? Fuck no, let's head to Becket! and that my mother is sliding off her rocker faster than I thought.

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"This is what's left of my father's life. Christ."

Me. To myself. A lot. Looking at two wooden 8 x 10 out-trays on the counter, the final resting place for The Last of Daddy's Things. A school report. Ration card from the war. Release from prison camp, in German. Membership in the Norwegian Underground. A few photos. A postcard. Boy Scout badge. Three hand written speeches on graph paper. That's about it. A cigar cutter. The sum total of a year spent going though the attic and his office and his desk and his closets. One man's life, now in two small scratched up wooden boxes.