Yesterday afternoon, I finally got around to moving Mom's jewelry armoire home. It's been a long time coming...Mom actually wanted to help me move it before she got really sick, but I wasn't in a place mentally, nor was I emotionally for that matter, at the time for this to transpire. Dad contacted me with great urgency bright and early Tuesday morning. I responded to the edge in his voice, I'm ashamed to say, in kind. I had one of my worst headaches in recent memory just the night before, and anyone who understands the level of headache I'm referring to knows that it's days before the backlash has dimmed. I was quick to snap.

"Your mom's stuff HAS TO BE CLEANED OUT THIS WEEKEND!" he all but shouted at me over the phone. My question as to why such a thing must be done this weekend was less of a pleasant inquiry and more of a snarled epithet. Pain can make people ugly. We were good and ugly with each other that day. He eventually stopped by work and we stood outside and spoke with the civility that was missing in our phone conversation. He's been having a rough time...packing away reminders was proving necessary.

I promised to pick up the armoire that has been waiting for me for months. I called in a favor with Nick to bring home paper boxes...he came through and we managed to squeeze 18 of them within the confines of my car's trunk and backseat. I dropped them off, stacking them neatly for Dad to use when packing her clothes. We agreed that it would be easier if he did that part alone. To him, Mom's clothes were a nuisance that forced him to use a closet in another room entirely. To me, they were something she loved...one of the few things she bought only for herself.

So anyway, the armoire. I removed the drawers and took a moment to appreciate the treasures I uncovered...the card I sent her on my 21st birthday, for instance, sent just months after my move to North Carolina. I scribbled before signing my name, "I'm the luckiest girl in the world...because 21 years ago today God gave me you." The ink was smudged with long-dried tears. I took note of Cancer charity jewelry...so many of her treasured friends gave the hope-filled beads. She had so many duplicates, triplicates...some still encased in their original packaging...she kept them all. They were all so very precious to her. I am reminded of the Shakespearean quote, "One who has a thousand friends has not a friend to spare."

I tried my luck at lifting the chest. The sucker was heavy and nearly as tall as me. I was dressed yet in my work attire, a pencil skirt falling just above my knees and making any display of physical fortitude slightly laughable. Eventually I engaged in a sort of two-step with the thing, walking it forward leg by leg, every now and then giving it a twirl to work around a tight corner in a house one of my friends once termed "maze-like". I was grateful for the empty house, as my grunting was less than feminine and required neither witnesses or any possibility of documentation. I wedged it in the back seat and felt the blood pounding in my temples.

I returned to the house to get the drawers. Carrying them all, which resulted in elbow-locked arms and a towering stack over which I could not see, I somehow made it to the car without incident. Multiple trips...I have somewhat of a mental block with them. Curious, isn't it? I reclined the passenger seat to keep the drawers stacked just behind in place. I drove home, backed into the driveway cockeyed...as I'm female and totally suck at car maneuvering. I admit it. I am a safe driver, exceptionally safe...but I display no particular aptitude. My aunts were not yet home from work, and I was parked in their spot. "I'll have it moved in 45 minutes when they should arrive," I told myself.

Well I was so tuckered out from moving it the first time, that I just kinda went all slug-like. I had some watermelon. I checked my email. I called my cell phone to listen to Norah. Half an hour later, I strained to pull the beast out of the car. I hoisted it up the narrow steps in the garage, screaming profanity and scaring the elderly neighbor as I pinched my fingers between the door jamb and the armoire. I paused, eying the stairs I must now descend with this large piece of crap. That's right, the romanticism wore a bit thin as the project stretched on. When finally I reached the base, I ran back for the drawers, before I lost all ambition on the task at hand.

Needless to say, my aunts returned home with my car as of yet unmoved. One smart comment and I snapped that the armoire was a lot damn heavier than I expected. One of them replied that they would have been happy to help. I replied, "Yeah...but I'm stubborn."

I heard Brenda reply side of the mouth mumble, "She still remembers the TV episode."