In the days leading up to my mothers death, I asked her permission to clean out the fridge. Or at least rearrange a few things, since it was full of ancient condiments and stale sauces. Of course she said yes and added a rather stoic "it's your fridge now". But it seemed important to get permission to honor her wishes and abundance even until the very end.
My mom was/is. It is also new writing about this I'm hating the grammar transition. My mother had a particular way of being in the kitchen and really being in the world. She was able to elevate even the most ordinary objects to the highest realm. Everything was the best, fanciest, most exotic, extra special. This did go beyond the fridge. But for now I need to stay in the kitchen. She collected jams and mustard and sauce on trips the way others might gather spoons or souvenirs. Each special jar was given labeled shelf space, special consideration in the fridge and treasured with such a respect it was as though these condiments could completely transported her back to their exotic origins. It felt disrespectful or at least important to acknowledge the value she imparted on such ordinary things before I simply moved everything into the compost bin and recycling box. I removed Italian capers Japanese ginger, Swedish fish and something blackened buy a rare mold. I visited trips she made to San Francisco and join need along the Oregon coast to half eaten jars of jam. If red pepper jelly could talk, it would have saying the praise of my mother how lovingly she transported glass with care her purse and how she welcomed each vessel into a community a familiars onto a shelf labeled "savoury".
If Honey spoke in tongues I could understand I would hear Italian, French, Canadian and Irish dialects whispering from the pantry in her enormous kitchen. When I said goodbye to the neglected and rotten, the worst of all her symptoms of illness, I try to honor each memory as I made room for the casseroles and meals being brought by friends acutely aware of the tragedy on the horizon. But I know the work was important and more so I knew the work was mine. That fridges need cleaning and clearing and making room and that this was to be my last time to share the ordinary stories of mayonnaise and mustard with the woman who in her lifetime made me no less than 1 million tomato sandwiches and fancy cheese plates with an imported pickle inside of pepper jelly.
I don't think there is a perfect thing to do during someone's end of days. Except to love and be loved and be ordinary and exceptional. To elevate the relics of your life to the highest standing.