Traverse City Record-Eagle

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November 28, 2011

Marta Hepler Drahos: Seeing Mom everywhere

I’m alone in my mom’s apartment, surrounded by her things: each one a memory, a chapter in her life.

I’ve come here often in the three weeks since she died, to hold what she once touched, to take in her scent, to cry with abandon or just to sit quietly and remember.

My sister calls me a sensory person, and perhaps I am. All I know is that being here, among her familiar possessions, gives me a kind of comfort I can’t find anywhere else.

As I walk from room to room, opening cupboards and drawers, it’s her personality that I seek and find.

It’s there in the three books she was reading at once, the computer on which she played, shopped and learned.

It’s there in the Barn Goddess T-shirt and the canvas barn jacket, the “wellies” containing bits of hay. In the South Beach cap and the blue jeans purse and the colorful array of rubber clogs with charms.

It’s there in the scents of lavender and lily, the Auden poem she had framed. In the homespun checked tablecloths, the cast iron trivets, the teapots and egg cups and crumpets.

It’s there in the rows of homegrown herbs, the pantry spices arranged alphabetically. In the recipes for bean ragout and green pepper stir-fry, in a hand that’s part-cursive, part-print.

It’s there in the cameo locket my dad gave her when they married and the ankle bracelet she bought in her 70s. In the faded gold nurse’s namepin, the cellphone with rhinestone-letter charm, the glasses with beaded lanyards she was always misplacing.

It’s there in the dog figurines and the pig folk art and the collection of animal salt-and-peppers. In the photos of an angry bluebird and of an old Irish farmer and his nag.

It’s there in all the things that followed her from the house I grew up in to the last place she called home as a widow. From the down comforter that once covered my grandfather to the bird scissors my grandmother used to snip thread. From the furry yellow robe my dad gave her to the bedroom set he painted antique green.

Everywhere I look, in fact, I see my mom  — in all her glorious contradiction.

So for now, for as long as I need to, I’ll keep her apartment as it is: a place filled not just with objects but with her presence.

Reach staff writer Marta Hepler Drahos at mdrahos@record-eagle.com.

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