The Sacred Cloth

Passing on the cherished possessions

If I said it once to my mother, I said it a hundred times, “Move near me while you have the energy to make a new life for yourself. Don’t wait until you have to move.” As many readers know from their own experiences, my mother wasn’t going to move. Period.

It happened suddenly: multiple falls, a broken hip, profound confusion, and my monthly flights to Phoenix. Something had to give. Finally, my mother relented and agreed to move to a rehabilitation center near me. That problem was solved. Now, what to do with the condo and all the contents?

All daughter and son caregivers vow something like this: “I’m never going to leave my kids with responsibility to ________ (fill in the blank with whatever we plan to do so our kids won’t have the burden of doing it for us). In my case, my pledge is to never leave my kids with the responsibility of sorting out all my stuff. I’m going to give stuff away or otherwise get rid of stuff that’s not really important, long before I have to. At least, that’s my intention.

I had three days to empty the condo of my mother’s personal possessions, linens, clothes, and personal treasures accumulated over a lifetime. My friends Kathy and Jo and my cousin Shelly helped me. We had three piles—one for Goodwill, one for the dump, and one for things destined for my house on Bainbridge Island. If my mother saw how we managed her things, she would have had a stroke right then and there. I hated that task. I felt like I was dismantling my mother’s life. The entire effort stunk of disrespect. I was angry and resentful and tired. Then something wonderful happened.

While going through the linen closet, I found a small, square, embroidered cloth wrapped in tissue paper. When I unwrapped the package, I immediately recognized the cloth. It had belonged to my deceased grandmother. It was the cloth she used to drape over her small dresser, which served as a prayer altar. On top of the embroidered cloth, she would place a smaller white cloth, presumably to keep the embroidered cloth clean. On top of that, she placed two simple candleholders with short white candles inside. She would light the candles, and with closed eyes, quietly say her prayers in Hebrew, weaving back and forth as she held her tattered prayer book.

My Orthodox Jewish grandmother prayed twice a day, every day, beginning when she was a very young child. She died when she was 92. I don’t know how old the embroidered cloth is, but I recalled seeing it as a child, when my grandmother lived with us. I knew that the cloth was at least 57 years old—as old as I am now. If the cloth was 57 years old and my grandmother prayed every day over it for 57 years, there might have been as many as 41,610 prayers said over that cloth. Imagine.

The cloth was (is) sacred. I had found a family treasure. I carefully rewrapped the cloth and put it inside my suitcase for safekeeping. The rest of the day went more slowly, and I evaluated my mother’s things more carefully. I stopped now and then to savor the memories generated by an item of clothing or a piece of jewelry.

Last month, I attended my aunt’s funeral in San Francisco. I took the sacred cloth with me and gave it to my cousin Sharon, a very devout Jew. I knew she was the one who should have the cloth. She would best take care of it and carry on its purpose. When I gave her the cloth and told her of its history, she cried. I cried.

I now think that maybe my job wasn’t really about clearing out possessions. It was about passing on the cherished ones.

By Sara Myers
The Good Enough Daughter Blog