If you’re a semi-regular reader, then you know I’ve been enduring that right of passage known as “The Packing of Parental Possessions”. For the last several months, the focus has been on cleaning out the apartment they occupied for 30 years, packing and boxing and lifting and hauling until every personal item had been transported to a new home. From that point the plan (a word at which I’ve learned to laugh) is to determine who wants what, get them to actually take it, and then dispose of the rest.
So you will have a thorough understanding of the events I am about to relate, I should first give a brief description of the storage area(s) currently occupied by all the stuff. The first room you enter is quite large with a short hallway that leads to another, somewhat smaller room now filled with furniture. From there you can enter yet another, longer hallway that allows you to access an even larger room that is packed . . . not quite to the ceiling since it’s 15 feet high, but close.
It's amazing how much can be accumulated and retained over a 30 year period.
Recently I was attempting to organize (another word at which I have learned to laugh) the maze of mess to allow for better access so when (not if, but when) people come to fetch their stuff, they can actually get to it. It was time to go home, so I left the large room, turning off the lights and locking the door behind me . . . passed through the longer hallway (also turning off the lights and locking the door behind me . . . can you tell there are a lot of doors?) moved across the smaller, furniture-filled room, then into the short hallway before finally entering the first large room. And then remembering I had left the door open and the light on in the smaller room. So, I turned around, intent upon correcting that mistake so departing would be a viable option, and that’s when I saw it. Reflected in one of the two large mirrors that are stored in the short hallway . . . the ones that once hung over the matching black oriental chests that sat to either side of the window in the living room of my parents’ apartment . . . was my father’s face.
It took me a minute to remember that two rather special pictures were stored behind the door to that room—the door with a vented panel in the bottom to allow for better air circulation. And obviously, the circumstances in which I found myself. One of those pictures was the ginormous family portrait we had all posed for one Tuesday evening two days before Thanksgiving which was when we always celebrated the holiday. That way Dad could pull calls on the actual day which let the other directors spend time with their families. It also made it easier to gather as our family grew larger. That was the picture where my mother declared her . . . shall we say posterior? . . . looked larger than she had anticipated (she was wearing beige and positioned rather oddly, which didn’t help matters any). My father reminded her that was only about a fourth of it. He also observed that he was the only one who looked like he’d been dug up for the occasion.
The other portrait was the one I was seeing—or at least half seeing. It was an 11 x 14 framed picture of my parents, positioned in such a way that if the door to that room was opened exactly the right amount . . . and you were standing in exactly the right spot . . . and the light was left on because you forgot to turn it off . . . you could clearly see the reflection of my father’s face. Watching me . . .
I’ve often heard people refer to their deceased loved ones as their “guardian angels” . . . beings who, though no longer bound to this earth, choose to stay . . . to watch over them . . . to protect them from the evils of this world while leaving subtle reminders of their abiding presence. Like a cardinal perched upon a windowsill. Or a long-forgotten note that drops from the pages of a book. Or the reflection of a picture hiding behind a door. Those reminders bring the gift of comfort, often a smile, and the gentle whispering of a love that does not fade with Death—borne on the wings of the angels who watch over us. You’d think they’d know such reminders aren’t necessary. Some things—and people—can never be forgotten.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926 and has worked with Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 45 years. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
