There are advantages to death if one is open to seeing them…and it’s not your own.

When my mom passed away in 2016, one of the most difficult aspects of losing her was clearing out her house. In case you think it, mom was not a hoarder. She was a saver. Her little two bedroom was neat and clean at her passing. Clearing her house for sale looked to be easy until we opened drawers and looked into the 20 storage totes piled neatly in the basement.

Quite naturally, she kept all her medical and dental records. And her taxes. And her purchases. And her daily schedules. And her personal clippings of her life as a professional singer.

Those records were in three filing cabinets and 8 storage totes.

Since there was a medical issue when mom died, we examined medical records to make sure we saved everything for a possible lawsuit. It took four days, one paper shredder, and 10 garbage bags dropped off at the local landfill/recycle center.

Her taxes took another 3 days as we sorted and shredded years of records not relevant to her final estate and tax year settlements. Another 3 totes down, and 4 garage bags delivered.

Shredding was constant except for times when the shredder needed to cool down. Mom’s small town did not have a commercial shredder with security, enough, to convince me to use them.

The remaining totes were my fault. One was full of my exploits as a young man, including proof I never learned how to really dress myself until my mid-30s.

Another was like the first but for my brother. Others were for my oldest daughter, one for my youngest daughter, and one for each of the five grandchildren engendered by my marriage in 1972.

All totes were filled with faded photos and news clippings. I gave each tote to each subject, however, and those totes were gone.

I came home with two totes. One was mine and one was filled with things snitched from the others: My mom as a young woman, my brother and I in baseball uniforms in 1968, my daughters’ news paper photo of them jumping rope on the first day of spring in 1982…important stuff.

The two totes were put high up on a shelf, out of the way and avoided until this past week. My intent was to whittle the two down to one and get my affairs in order. I wanted to be ready for when someone comes to settle my estate, do my final taxes, and close my books, so to speak.

But I got lost in the totes, in the years they represented, and the memories they inspired. My sober attempt to be a good deceased person turned into a regret I did not still have all 20 totes…or mom.

Regret–in context–does not lead to sorrow or unhappiness. I regret the losses of the last 68 years of my own life, but carry on with life happy in the knowledge someone will feel the same about me in 50 years.

Whether anyone really does or not, is irrelevant. I have faith, thanks to mom’s stuff.