After blogging my post about what I had kept that belonged to my father, I started thinking about what I would want to keep in remembrance of my mother after she is gone.
Not any of her clothes, certainly. Our styles are about as different as generations can be.
Not her jewelry, certainly. The only jewelry I wear are those few rings that have meaning for me. And lots of cheap earrings that I put on according to my mood. She has nothing special that she has worn for years, except my father’s grade school graduation ring, which my brother probably will want. She lost her engagement ring years ago.
Not the large professional and original oil portrait of her painted by a friend when my mom was in her 30s. I’m sure my brother will want it.
None of her furniture — although I might consider her electric-powered recliner even though I hate the fabric and color But that wouldn’t be in the same category as my father’s hat.
Not even the crewel image of Jesus she made when she was a teenager (of which she is still very proud) and which has always hung on her wall. I would never hang it on any of my walls. I suppose I could just keep it in a drawer, but I don’t know why I would do that.
I think that the only thing of my mother’s that I really want to keep is a lustrous porcelain statue of the Virgin Mary that came from Lourdes sometime in the 1920s, and it has the number 168 carved into the back of the base. It was my grandmother’s before it was my mother’s. It is also something my mother continues to treasure, but for reasons much different from mine.

Actually, I already have kept one other thing associated with my father. It’s from the home in which I lived as a young child, which was also my Dad’s funeral home/place of business.
When he took over the business from his predecessor in the early forties, one of the objects left behind was a ceramic bowl planter and matching pedestal, each of which is covered with glazed stands of lush bull rushes. These decorative pieces survived 40 years of funerals and another 25 of my hauling them around through countless moves. They both are still in perfect condition.
I think my father filled the planter with sand and used it as a place smokers could put their cigarette butts. I have filled the planter with various trailing plants. There is something calming about its colors and forms, and I just like being in the same room with it.

I am wondering what possessions of mine will have value to my own children. Maybe it will just be this weblog.