Recently my daughter-in-law came by the funeral home. I’m not sure why but she really doesn’t have to have a reason . . . especially if she has the grandkids in tow. My son—her husband—took the opportunity to show her all the stuff we’d renovated . . . the two newly redone staterooms . . . the ladies’ restroom and the men’s restroom and the handicapped accessible restroom.

And then they went to the new lounge.

The new lounge that is on the first floor. The new lounge that occupies what was once my parents’ bedroom and den and kitchen. The new lounge that doesn’t belong where it is.

She had always admired my mother and, once she figured out that my dad wasn’t nearly as scary as he seemed, loved him equally. He didn’t help matters the first time they met. She looked up to find him intently staring at her . . . the kind of stare that seems to go right through you, making you feel incredibly uncomfortable. And then he grinned that mischievous grin of his and let the twinkle come into his eyes and she knew he’d been waiting for her to look up so he could do exactly what he had done. This had been their home for as long as she had known them, the apartment that was quietly tucked away from the public part of the funeral home yet close enough that work was only a door away.

The family meals had taken place there, the family Christmases celebrated there. Every holiday was met with a meal of some description and time together as a family. And now it’s gone. My parents are dead and now even the place that held the memories is nothing more than that.

She walked into bookkeeping with tears in her eyes, saying over and over again, “I hate it. I hate it.” Not because it wasn’t functional or convenient or comfortable or even pleasant but because of what it once was that wasn’t anymore. She understood the need. She saw the benefits. But that didn’t make it any better.

There are so many things I wish were the same. It would be wonderful if the Guinn Tourist Home that was operated by my great aunt was still where Hardee’s stands now, if my childhood home was not occupied by others, if the landmarks of our lives could remain unscathed . . . if we could manage to preserve the past by never changing in the present. But we can’t. As much as we may want to and as hard as we might try, Death only brings life to a screeching halt temporarily while we deal with his chaos; eventually the wheels begin to turn again and we begin to move forward, away from what once was and into what it will become.

So my parents’ master bath becomes a handicapped accessible restroom and an alcove for some vending machines. And their master bedroom becomes a lounge as does their den and kitchen. And the tangible reminders of life as we knew it are packed away or removed and discarded so other memories can take their place. Shrines are wonderful things, but rarely ever are they practical . . . or even possible.

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