Executrix.

It’s a fancy little word. Never heard of it in all my 36 years, until recently. You see, that’s my latest label.

Sticky little things, those labels. They just reach out and wrap themselves around you and as quick as they stick, we accept them.

My father passed away 6 months ago and on the day he died I took on that role, along with my executor brother, Chris. He didn’t ask for his label either yet here we are. Completely responsible for my late father’s affairs. Being the youngest and oldest of a gang of eight, you can imagine the burden that came with these new titles.

We closed on my parent’s home this past Friday.

That day, though it brought a sigh of relief, also choked me, like hands around my throat.

I walked into my parents house that day with tears stinging my eyes, knowing it was for the last time. As I made my way through the now empty rooms, my mind wandered off to the times those walls were stuffed full with family. I could almost smell my mothers chicken rice cooking as I made my way through the kitchen. I smiled as I looked out the window over the sink where my mother used to feed the birds, then frowned when I realized the feeders are now barren like this house.

The birds no longer look for their meal here any more than I do.

I made my way out to my Dad’s work shop. Its walls now covered in loose nails and bits of wire but my mind filled it with tools and motors waiting to be fixed. The grease stains on the floor remind me of all the times I’ve seen my father’s feet sticking out from under a truck and I wonder whose hands will work behind these now closed bay doors.

The long grass tickled my legs as I walked out into the back field. 66 acres of land, a person could get lost here and there has been a few times I wish that person was me. I glance to the lower field where my mother’s garden once flourished with fruits, flowers and vegetables. It is now wild and over grown with weeds.

It’s tangled mess of life and death has the same ferocious look that I imagine the cancer had when it took over her stomach. Five years ago since she lost that battle and everything has changed since the day she closed hers eyes.

My family was broken. Shattered into a thousand little pieces that no glue could mend. For she was the bond that kept us all together.

I take my one last look around the house and light 2 white candles inside the fire-place for them. The two flames burn side by side as I imagined my parents now standing side by side on the other side. Where ever that is. People talk of heaven and hell but I don’t believe it to be so simple.

I do trust, that where ever they are, they have met again and are making their peace with one another. Forgiving each other for all that they were and were not for each other. Embracing in love knowing that they were only human and did they best they could. I think they did just fine.

For I forgive them too.

You see we all have skeletons in our closets and my family had them too. The kind of skeletons that the rain washes away the mud on and some unlucky passer-by happens to trip over. Exposing them to the world.

Perhaps we always know it’s best to have the truth out there. Bring forth whats thought to be dark into the light. So we can forgive the ones who buried those skeletons in the first place. Perhaps by forgiving them, we can forgive ourselves. For being human too.

For there is no one who walks this earth that is perfect, we all make mistakes. Although it is often easier to point out the faults in others, perhaps we need to take a closer look in the mirror first. Reminding ourselves to not be the judge, unless we can freely stand before a jury ourselves.

Before we left the house that day to sign over my parent’s house, my brother Chris and I left a cold beer on the fireplace for my dad and burnt an incense in the garden for my mom.

We walked out to the car, loaded up the last few things and drove away with one last glance out the window. Our family name still printed on the side of the mail box.

They are gone now, along with their house. Everything on this earth that was theirs has either been donated, tossed or divided amongst their children. Chris and I have seen that all their taxes and debts have been paid and that my fathers last living will has been served. In one year we will shed our labels with hopes there will be no sticky residue and my father’s estate will be closed.

All that is left is the blood in my veins that proves they were here. My eyes sparkle the same shade of blue as my mothers and my words flow free my pen as did hers. All that is stubborn and bull-headed in me is my father, but so is all that’s hard working and determined.

They were my parents. They were not perfect but they were mine, and there will never be anyone like them again, who could create another me.

Number eighth child. Executrix. Anniegrateful, that’s me.

Write back soon, love Annie.

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