I went to visit my grandmother’s grave this morning. Today would have been her 103rd birthday. I started crying. I remembered how she and mom would tell me stories of the family and the craziness and the good times and the marriages and the divorces and the …
Then there is all our stuff. The furniture, the ceramic plates with the birds, the Lladros, the music boxes. I was playing the piano yesterday morning and one of the music boxes just started playing out of the blue. Sign from above?
I had a run-in with one of the professors at school yesterday. The school is supposed to open at 9:00 am, but the regular guy who opens went out of town and the mean other professor was there with one of her students and wouldn’t let me in. I didn’t understand why it’s okay for one member of the faculty to let students in, but not another? She mentioned privilege again, she is stuck on that word. Yeah, it’s a privilege after I spend $400 dollars for lessons! But really, it is.
Everything I have is a privilege: the house, the furniture, the money, the warm air, the harp. But we are not our possessions and when it comes time to sell the house, I get what I get and I am still ahead of the game. I can’t carry the living room around with me. What is important to me is the memories of my family. All of them, the good ones and the crazy, sad ones. We are our stuff, our stories and our music that we offer.