This weekend I just started going through the very large storage unit that I stored all the household possessions from my parents' house. It was...painful, but afterward I felt relieved and lighter.

I have a friend who's helping me, one that doesn't let me get sucked back down into this well of memories when I run across clothes that my mother had painstakingly made and worn for years. Because every box I unpack is like a bear-trap, waiting to be sprung by some unsuspecting person, releasing a flood of sensory images - smells and tastes and textures that linger on from my childhood.

I went back today, with my friend, working on more boxes. The memories are just as strong, just as wrenching, but followed by relief. I can do this.

I have the advantage of time; it's been many years since my mother passed away, and the years are quickly sliding by on my father's passing.

I can only offer the comfort, such as it is, of internet hugs and the reassurance that it does get easier, with time.