something to call her own

my thoughts today caught me by surprise -- aunt pat will be staying in the nursing home and jenny and i went by her apartment to inventory what needs to be moved

listing the ornately carved occasional table with its rich brown marble top, the large desk granddaddy made, the stately secretary, the grandfather clock whose chimes, now silent, still reverberate through me, the cast iron bed, the jewelry box with its cameo and garnet earrings...i was struck by the realization that all of these items embody my memories of grandmother and granddaddy allinder

though they lived at nine different addresses during my lifetime, the atmosphere was always the same because of their belongs -- some of which have already found new homes among family members ... viewing the remaining pieces today without aunt pat being there was an oddly melancholy experience because i realized that even though grandmother and granddaddy have been dead for 20+ years i have subconsciously taken solace in the fact that a semblance of them remained, safe, in aunt pat's care

but at what cost to her?
for i realize that the same objects that gave me comfort may well have seemed like a type of prison to her -- rather like living in a museum -- having people coming to visit, oohing and aahing over the objects 'd allinder but unable to claim ownership of a single piece

aunt pat now lies in her hospital bed staring at the ceiling, neither bothered nor excited by her state, a fixture like the desk or the clock requiring periodic upkeep, and that, with the exception of the reading to her of her louis l'moure books, being of an impersonal nature

who knows if she is/was happy
who knows if she feels/felt like one of their belongings, part of the furnishings
who knows if she feels/felt the desire for something to call her own