ACT ONE

Liz, age 65, is sitting on her bed in a robe and a headscarf of the sort worn by chemo patients gone bald. Beside her is a large jewelry case; at the foot of her bed are three large opaque plastic bins. A pair of clothing racks are on opposite walls, one containing sequined evening gowns, the other a variety of colorful clothing with sundry shoes and accessories strewn nearby.

LIZ

I am haunted by the harbinger of my own ghost. This, my daily dread, will by its nature be rendered moot upon my death; nevertheless, the specter of my pending non-existence torments me. Death itself I do not unduly fear. Why then, do I persist in such torturous contemplation of the fate that awaits us all?

I can bear the knowledge that I myself will cease to survive in body or in soul. (No life eternal for me, thank you very much.) What I cannot bear is the knowledge that there is no escaping—not death, but its post-mortem: i.e., the meticulous erasure of my earthly trappings; ergo, of myself.

I imagine them, vividly, my three grown children—Doug, Dan, Lauren—trudging their way, dutifully, resolutely, through sundry cupboards and closets, boxes and bins.

(she gestures toward rack of clothing)

My wardrobe: Color-crazy-mix-and-(mis)matches; copper-leather, custom-made-in-Italy boots; eclectic collection of over-the-top hats—everything unique to the Emerald trademark—OUT.

(she gestures toward rack of gowns)

The “Boutique”: The sumptuous silks and such, the beaded and sequined gowns, the fine leather accessories—all having been gathered for the express purpose of raising funds on behalf of the local food pantry—OUT.

(she rummages in the jewelry chest, admiring several items as she holds each in turn before strewing them on the bed)

Treasure chest #1: The 56-piece-and-counting collection of stone-in-sterling pendants—outfit complements that oft attract outfit compliments. The hundreds of pins—handmade-by-me, featuring foreign stamps, glittered metallic monograms, pop-and-fine-art images—OUT.

(she rummages in one of the bins, hoisting assorted trophies and medals before laying them on the bed)

Treasure chest #2: The 268-piece-and-counting collection of racing medals, awarded me, over these past five years, for placing first, second, third (or only: as age increases, size decreases) in my 60-plus age division—OUT.

(she rummages in another bin, flipping through photo albums before laying them on the bed)

Treasure chest #3: The 43-piece-and-counting collection of 36-count photo “flippers,” collective chronicles of these past eight years—years I’ve spent with Chuck, my “best man”—the happiest years of my life.

(upon mention of Chuck, she reaches over to her dresser and holds aloft a framed portrait of the two of them—poster-sized for audience visibility—then resumes speaking)
 

World travelers we aren’t—indeed, our roaming range is book-ended by Salems MA and NH on the top shelf, and bordered by Boston and barely-beyond-it on the bottom. Nevertheless, everywhere we do go—lake-and-sea-side, North-and-South-shore, wedding-and- shower-ing, XMAS-and-Easter-ing, racing-and-medal-ing—Chuck is never without his camera. (Except for two one-week-periods pending recovery or replacement of a couple of car-roof casualties.)

This super-saturated, electric-rainbowed panorama, this scrumptious jumble-pie comprising the eight most prime slices of my life—OUT.

(she rummages in another bin, hauling out folders, notebooks, and newpapers and strewing them on the bed)

Treasure chest #4: The writings I’ve done on and—mostly—off over the last 33 years. These comprise five “books,” four novels and one non-fiction—all, alas, unpublished—and short stories and such from three writers’ groups. And these thirteen letters to the editor—my lame claim to fame.

(she extracts a large spiral notebook from the bin)

Interspersed amidst the workshop writings are several interim, independent productions. These were spewed by way of coping with profound demoralization, such as was occasioned by major kicks to this erstwhile-complacent butt of mine. Unexpected layoff with persistent unemployment; ugly implosion of an assumed-to-be-forever-best-friendship; sudden and significant loss of speed in my race times—a recurrent curse—which persisted, mysteriously, for months on end, despite my determined efforts to recoup. I refer these stress-induced, sleepless-night rants, collectively, as my “Midnight Ramblings.”

(she commences to replace the various items in their containers, after which she resumes addressing the audience)

A few months back, I wrote a “will” of sorts—which I titled “Loose Ends,” that expresses my wishes for disposition of my writings. As for those other “trappings”—so aptly termed—of my life, this stuff of mine, detailed above, which defines me; this stuff in which I am mired, entangled, a prisoner of my sense of self; this stuff that nobody else cares about, at least, not in the way that I care, so desperately care, about it: Why does my earthly mind refuse to relinquish these, my mortal remains?

This is not to say that I should simply toss my stuff now—actually, of course I should, but I cannot bear to do so. What I mean by “relinquish” is not give up the goods preemptively, but rather make peace with their pending, post-mortem departure. How am I to do this, pray tell?

The question, in its literal sense, is unanswerable, whether by prayer or pragmatic means. The former is not an option for an atheist; the latter would entail extensive psychoanalysis, whereby the only “relinquishment” guaranteed would involve my bank account. The problem behind the question can be addressed in a practical sense. Its solution can be boiled down to a trite: Grow up already and face your mortality!
 

(She pulls out a red marker and a yellow sticky pad, and recites aloud as she prints, then affixes each label to its designated box: TC#1 … TC#2 … TC#3 … TC#4.)

(close curtain)

 

ACT TWO (FOUR MONTHS LATER)

Lauren is sitting on her late mother’s bed. (Same scene details: Beside her is a large jewelry case; at the foot of her bed are three large opaque plastic bins. A pair of clothing racks are on opposite walls, one containing sequined evening gowns, the other a variety of colorful clothing with sundry shoes and accessories strewn nearby.)
               
LAUREN

My mother left a pile of money and a mountain of stuff.

The pile of money is pending probate and a three-way split among my brothers and me. The mountain of stuff is pending, period. It’s got to be conquered ASAP and lucky me gets to climb it solo, sans brotherly support.

Just to be perverse, I put a twist on the trite “up-the-mountain” metaphor: I’m starting at the summit and working my way down. That is, top floor, here, in her bedroom. That’s where most of her stuff is anyway. Here goes.
 
(she approaches the rack of clothing, pawing through it as she speaks, whilst stuffing all into large black garbage bags)

Not to disrespect my mother, but I can pretty much phone this one in. I won’t have to spend any time agonizing over the question of what to toss. The answer:  All of the above.  I can pretty much tell without even bothering to look that there’s nothing I’m going to want.

The only thing our clothes had in common was size-wise. Style-wise, nada. She loathed baggy sweats and braggy Tees; the faux faded and ripped-for-real jeans; all of my comfortable dwelling places. She would wear polka dots and stripes in blacks and whites; fruity brights: melon and cherry, raspberry and grape, apricot and peach; ocean blues: turquoise and teal and aquamarine.
 
Don’t get me wrong: some of this stuff is very nice—just not for me, Mom, thanks just the same. I’m not going to bother trying to pitch any of it around town. I spoke to the owners of some of the local consignment shops; the deal is, it’s a 40/60 split in their favor—that’s of course only IF they sell it. Which is pretty much moot because they won’t take any of her stuff in the first place. They want current fashion and designer labels: not my mom. So, I guess that leaves me with “yard-sale-ing” the stuff—it’ll fetch a few bucks AND leave me with fewer bags to have to cart off to Goodwill. 
 

(She approaches the rack of sequined gowns, pawing through it as she speaks, whilst stuffing all into large black garbage bags.)

And now for the “ballroom section,” AKA the “Boutique”: Ditto, ditto.


(She returns to the bed, and speaks as she peers into each box in turn, briefly lifting out a few items before dismissively tossing them back)

OK, Mom, moving on to your junk boxes—I mean, “Treasure Chests”:

TC#1: Pendants, mainly. Dozens of them; nothing valuable, really—just silver, no gold; just stones, no gems. I suppose I can scout out some nearby jewelry stores; they might offer a deal for the collection; 50-something, times, say, five bucks each—I should be able to get a couple of hundred, anyway. Otherwise: yard sale table; three for $10 ought to do it.

Jesus H. Christ-and-a-half! Thousands of little wooden pins that she made—with stamps and letters and what-not stuck on. Cute, but no one will pay for these. Yard-sale freebie, basically, for the little kids who tag along. Or maybe I could make up a bunch of 12-pack “buck-a-bags.”

TC#2: Damn—too bad these aren’t real gold! All these medals—five-boxes of them, labeled by year. I knew she ran a lot of races; I’d see her come home with these things all the time. She started running at age sixty. She used to joke that she was the world record holder for total number of “only-one-in-her-age-group ‘first-place’ medals.” I remember one time she got an enormous trophy, which she dubbed “Most ostentatious award in the ‘just for showing up and being old’ category.” Oh, well. Her glory days are gone; another no-brainer for me.

TC#3: OMG: the photo gallery, eight years’ worth, mainly taken by and with her “Best Man,” Chuck. For Chrissakes, why couldn't they have just put everything on FaceBook like the rest of the world has done since the turn of the century? Chuck died suddenly two weeks after she did, so I can’t simply pawn the lot off on him and be done with it. I know: I’ll give them to Dan and Doug to look at, then let them toss them. They aren’t helping with anything else, that’s for damn sure.

TC#4: All these stories she wrote. Must be hundreds! I’ve never read any; I suppose I should look at a few, out of respect for her memory and all. At least, I can’t just throw them out. About a year back she gave me a piece of paper detailing where her word documents were stored, on some sort of  “thumb drive” or something, that she kept in a little purse somewhere. Christ, I have no idea where I stuck that paper. Now I’ve gotta go through my stuff to try to find it. Or go through all her purses to try to find the damned thing.

But it doesn’t really matter, does it? I mean, here are all the hard copies. I know: I’ll dump it on Doug. Let him deal with it. After all, he doesn’t have a real job; just fiddles around—unlike me, who busts my butt every day—he should be the one going through all this crap.

Really, I just can’t be bothered.