Seven years. That’s how long my mum’s belongings have been sitting quietly in a shipping container, sealed away from light, air, and touch. Last weekend, my sister, brother, and I gathered to open those doors and face what was inside. Her things – some precious, some practical – waited for the day they would find their way into the hands of the people she loved, the ones who would cherish them most.
I didn’t expect that this simple, practical act would feel like an embrace from my mum. It was unexpectedly healing. I always knew she loved scarves, but the sight of an entire box brimming with colour told its own story – shades that probably shifted with her moods, patterns that whispered of her introverted yet vivid personality.
There were treasures hidden in the quietest corners. Diaries and notebooks held fragments of her thoughts, reflections scribbled while listening to the ABC. Quotes from unexpected voices—Joan Kirner among them—on raising children, the value of friendships, the quiet courage of service. How wonderful to discover which “influencers” had shaped her life long before that word was ever fashionable. Each page was a small doorway into a world I had never known, and stepping through felt like saying hello again.
Wrapped in paper, I found the frames that once brightened her walls, their glass holding the faces of her children and grandchildren frozen in moments of joy. In other boxes, yellowed photographs of ancestors reached back through time, linking us to stories I had never heard. Tucked away in journals were poems my uncle had written, his words travelling across decades to meet me here. Sketchbooks and watercolour paper spoke of her quiet experiments in creativity. I giggled inside at her attempts to draw people – never her strongest suit – but still she captured something true in my brother’s handsome youthful face. Her bravery in trying, in daring to put pen to paper, felt like a gift she had unknowingly passed on to me.
And then my hands paused over a scrapbook. Inside, our family’s trip from Brisbane to Darwin in 2007 had been lovingly recorded. She had printed my long-forgotten blog post from Windows Live Spaces (remember that?) and paired it with photos I had not seen in years. In that moment, I realised that what I had thought of as small, insignificant updates had meant the world to her. Across the distance, my words had connected us. I was suddenly grateful that I had shared them, that I hadn’t let the busyness of life silence the stories she treasured.
I took home her clothing to wash before donating it. For some, this task would be soaked in tears, but for me it was gentle work. I checked each piece, listening to the soft hum of the machine as memories swirled like the rinse water. My husband picked up a jacket and smiled, “I remember her wearing this.” And just like that, a moment from years ago bloomed in the present.
Then, the most treasured of all possessions surfaced – Mum’s handwritten recipe book, missing all these years. We are all waiting in baited breath as its pages are scanned and shared, each recipe a pathway back to the smells and tastes of her kitchen.
At the end of the day, loading a box into my car, I am surprised at what I felt compelled to hold onto. Not the vase or the serving platter with their market value, but the dinner bell she rang when I was lost in homework, a Famous Five novel, or my stamp collection. And the wooden spoon – her companion in making custard, gravy, stews and casseroles. The same spoon that, on rare occasions, was used to make a point in other ways. It was worn smooth and lopsided, shaped by years of scraping the bottoms of pots in the same steady rhythm, guided by the same steady hand.
This morning, I stirred my porridge with that spoon. It knew exactly what to do. And in that small, ordinary moment, I was overcome with gratitude.
Gratitude for the legacy my mother left – in that shipping container, and in the depths of my heart.
