......

God knows I was more than a little apprehensive to go through her things. She’s been dead for one week and two months now, but sifting though her house, her bedroom, her bathroom, her kitchen all felt like major violations of her privacy; moreover, going through her bedroom felt like I was engaging in some sort of criminal act.

Growing up I was taught to never enter my parents’ bedroom without permission. I can remember being six or seven and hesitantly entering their room. As I passed by their doorway, I was captivated by a single sparkling earring lying on the floor at the foot of their bed. I hadn’t even picked up the earring before I heard her voice behind my back. Upon hearing her voice, I stopped; her voice had a paralyzing effect. “What are you doing in here?” she questioned, she didn’t ask, asking would imply a curiosity in her tone. Her tone was as far away from curious as it could get, it was interrogative, but implied guilt. I immediately explained myself pointing at the lonely earring on the floor. “Did you have permission?” she fired. From then on, I never went into their room.

Going through her bedroom was nostalgic in a very uncomfortable way. It felt like more of a transgression than a task that needed to be done. The control parents possess even beyond the grave is quite perplexing, as well as depressing since the lack of their physical presence seems to be used to support their infallibility. Not once did I enter their room, it was the only room in the house that was utterly unfamiliar to me. I never analyzed why I was never allowed to go in their bedroom, it was as if it was an eleventh commandment, never to be disobeyed. The bed was still in the same spot it had been 18 years ago. It’s strange, in retrospect my dad didn’t really seem to care if I went into their bedroom, it was always my mom acting as a fireman, and making sure I stayed 200 feet back. Looking around their bedroom, I don’t really understand why this rule was so important; I didn’t detect any breakables or things that were not “kid friendly.” Today I made it halfway through their bedroom. I thought I would only have to go through my mom’s belongings, but it appears that she didn’t throw any of my dad’s things out when he passed away two years ago. His stuff appeared untouched, almost like a shrine out of respect for him. The only interesting thing I found were some old photos of them looking constipated in the front entry way of a small house, but I guess that constipated face was the norm back then when posing for photos. I’m anxious for what I’ll find tomorrow.