By Laura T. Jensen

One minute the calendar read June 26, then Labor Day loomed.

The cleaning out took longer and was more painful than I’d expected. Days after his death, I told myself, Get going.. one room at a time. I’d engaged someone to handle a tag sale, and set a date. I chose the den in which to begin; crazy, it was definitely his space. A furniture hodgepodge crowded the small room: an antique desk, a glass topped coffee table, countless throw pillows atop a wrinkled leather couch, and his favorite, an 1800s rocker. I hoped this room would be a learning ground for the practice of sorting. I quickly found out otherwise. I placed two large black plastic bags on the floor: one for recycling, and one for trash. I plugged in the shredder, turned on the TV, and began.

As his daughter I knew that books were a huge part of his life, and the shelves groaned under the weight of his varied collection. I envied his ability to read several books simultaneously. I could not resist the temptation to garner an occasional phrase as I flipped the pages to make sure there was no money or personal notes shoved in as page markers. Occasionally, a paperclip would identify where he’d left off reading but most often it was to mark phrases or paragraphs he wanted to remember or recount. I reached no decision about future homes for any of these books. The black bags lay empty. The hall clock chimed noon.

Next I attacked the desk. I began to make some progress on the bottom drawer as I tossed and shredded. The trash bag bulged. The next drawer swelled with photos, some held together with string, others semi-sorted in unlabeled envelopes. This drawer was a definite roadblock; it overflowed with memories. I swallowed around the lump in my throat.

I dumped the contents of the shredder into one of the bags. I moved on. The third drawer held receipts and invoices from long ago, letters and cards, half used pencils, paper clips, and rubber bands. Glancing at the assorted bills, I shredded. The letters, greeting cards, scribbled notes, and post cards were another matter. I knew I would return to this collection to examine each before making any decisions. Hours ticked by while TV programs came and went, my legs cramped, and one foot fell asleep. The hall clock chimed five.

This exercise repeated itself several times through the remaining drawers of the desk. A whole day and I’ve yet to complete one room. I grabbed a calendar and counted the days left before the tag sale. There aren’t enough, I moaned. I would have to speed up my efforts.

He’d spent thirty-five years of his life in this house surely I should take my time—one week for every year. I sighed and asked God to make this summer thirty-five weeks long.

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