Tissue Issue

        When my husband's mother passed away several years ago, he and his sister were still working at jobs and their time was limited. I had already retired, so I took on the duty of emptying his mom's kitchen cabinets, dresser drawers, closets and anything else that needed to be emptied.

        I spent several days alone in my mother-in-law's house, mostly in her bedroom, sifting through everything from nightgowns to slips to pantyhose to make-up and jewelry. From the closet I pulled out familiar sweaters, jackets, trousers, and like-new dresses. As I continued performing this tearful task, a pattern began to emerge.

       Inside at least one pocket of every garment, I found a wadded-up Kleenex. Every sweater, jacket, pair of pants, or dress that sported a pocket, held a crushed white tissue; winter coats included. By the time I finished sorting an eighty-two-year-old's entire wardrobe and deciding which ones to give to family and which ones to donate to charity, the bed contained piles of clothes and the wastebasket held a mound of white fluff.

        Weeks later on a Sunday morning, I sat on the cushioned pew of a Baptist church and began searching for a Kleenex. I slid my hand into the pocket of my black dress coat and pulled out a wad of not one, two, or three, but a total of four tissues -- three white ones and a light blue one. Momentarily distracted from the sermon, I thought perhaps I needed to do some snooping, so when time permitted, I went to my own closet where yet again a pattern emerged.

        I stuck my hand in one pocket after another and pulled out a tissue, and I decided to relieve every garment of its crumpled debris. Rifling through skirts, robes, and at least a dozen hoodies, I tended to this ritual fully cognizant that my odd actions would probably stump Sigmund Freud. Nevertheless, I continued until my mission was completed. I also pledged to refrain from a habitual mindless maneuver that, in the end, gives the illusion of mindlessness.

        Even now, many years later, when I reflexively start to hide a tissue in its customary resting place, I remember my mother-in-law and catch myself. At bedtime as I change into my pajamas, I check for surprises in my pockets. Most of the time, I arrest the tissue issue altogether by simply throwing it away after the first use. After all, Puffs are relatively inexpensive and easy to come by.

        When my name is called and I join the other tissue users who have pre-deceased me, I will leave much behind to raise an eyebrow -- handwritten scribbles on bits of paper, song lyrics without music notes, oodles of silly stories like this one, and other curiosities. But of this I am certain:  Whomever is saddled with the tiresome chore of sorting through my belongings at the end of my ride, you will not find a single wadded-up Kleenex in any pocket. 

Well, maybe just one.