Lisa D’Angelo

When our 96-year-old mom died, we, her four adult kids, had the task of emptying her house. We cleared out drawers, file cabinets, and endless boxes of photos. Periodically you would hear one of us shouting from another room, Hey, you guys come here, you’ve got to see this. Scurrying like a bunch of mice after a piece of cheese, we’d clamor for that photo, article or whatever was discovered. Then like a chorus we’d say… I didn’t know that about mom.

Some unearthed truths:

●     Mom was the first female mayor or her elementary school

●     Mom’s roses won first place in a garden contest

●     Mom took her LSATS in her late 50’s

Breaking for lunch we’d squeeze around her small round kitchen table laughing about how she loved liverwurst on marble rye bread with French's yellow mustard. Gross, we’d say in unison.

Once the major bulk of the work was done we divided the remainder into specific areas. My charge was Mom’s clothes, shoes and accessories.

While folding her clothes I’d catch a subtle whiff of her perfume. I’d close my eyes and wish quietly that she hadn't died.

Mom’s shoe cubbies housed both her fancy and knock around shoes. As she aged her need for comfy wide slip-ons dominated the cubbies.

Belts, scarf’s, hats and purses made up her accessories..... gathering, sorting and

reminiscing about where I bought a certain scarf for her… was it for Mother’s Day? Or was it for Christmas?… So pretty, I decided to keep it for myself.

A dainty embroidered kerchief, red lipstick, a small brush where her hair still entwined, and breath mints were found in her beautifully appointed black textured clutch with tortoise shell accents.

My mom, the quintessential lady.