By Ann Burnside Love
It had to do with something I’d never lacked before and
truly valued above much else. Actually, I felt guilty that I was even thinking about
this possibility, but so it was.
Separately, I was happy and excited about the apartment I’d
chosen. I was practical enough not to really worry about the actual moving
process, once my daughter and I planned it down to the tiniest detail. A lot of
the important-to-me worry stuff was being taken care of — having to do with possessions
I was passing along to the next generations.
My oversize recliners, comfortable and beloved by all, went
to No. 2 Son and his family, my piano to No. 3 Son whose young family loved
music. The round dining room table and chairs, with carpet, went to No. 1 Son’s
family. And the capacious mahogany buffet from my late husband’s family went to
my daughter, along with a selection of the china, silver and linens that lived
within. Then the whole family, including grown grandchildren, got to choose a
share of the lovely things left throughout the house — bargaining with each
other so politely I was stunned. My concern about fairness was resolved.
But when all that was settled, I was still left with
inside-the-churning-brain worry, the dark kind: I was entering a group of a
couple hundred people. Would I be comfortable with the established residents
and they with me? I knew a few, but just acquaintances. Would there be people with
whom to converse, think aloud, learn from … and laugh?
