My mother didn’t tell me how sick she was. When I arrived at the emergency room, after getting a call that she’d collapsed, I found out about her metastasized cancer from the doctor. Three days later, she was gone.
When I arrived at her empty New York apartment — my childhood home — I stared at the mess I’d inherited. She was suddenly gone, but her possessions lived on, and as a pack rat, there was an endless amount.