Mira filled another empty cardboard box, labeled it clothes and heaped it on the lowest pile among a forest of stacks.  

For a week, she had been cleaning out the home of a lonely woman who passed away without any family or friends.

Boxing up the kitchenware, clothing and personal belongings of this mystery woman, Mira felt a strange sense of loss for someone she never met. The loose items of life meaningless without the person they belong to.

“It’s so sad to leave this world without making even a footprint or leaving a fingerprint,” she thought.

Curious about the woman, Mira talked to a few neighbors when she saw them walking down the street. The answers were always the same.

“She was nice enough, but she really kept to herself,” one said.

“I didn’t know her very well; she never came out. I don’t think she had any family or friends,” another echoed.

“Without anybody who knew her, how will she be remembered? It’s as if she just passed through time?” Mira thought and continued with her work.

Coming from a large family, Mira could barely think of a time she was alone and treasured her family memories. She and her family often reminisced about their loved ones, past and present. Funny things they said, quirky personality traits and even the way they hugged. She recalled everything about them and knew they would do the same for her.

Saddened by the idea of this lonesome soul drifting from the world without anyone to remember her, Mira diligently tried to conjure a picture of this unknown woman in her mind.

Her clothing was modest and a little old-fashioned, but then again she was old. So was the furniture. It wasn’t thread born and the house generally was neat as a pin. So, Mira assumed she was a fastidious person. Everything had its place. She didn’t have to be Miss Marple to deduce the obvious, but other things were a true mystery.

Little doilies on the furniture in varying stages of cream and amber hues showed their march through time. And the many folded knit blankets lying around, along with the knitting needles and yarn placed next to the chair by the window clearly revealed she enjoyed knitting and crocheting.

But who were the blankets for and why so many? If she had no friends and family, did she make them for a worthy cause, like wheelchair-bound disabled veterans?

Mira assembled and packed the drab white plates and cups in the cupboard. But in one cabinet she found a small and delicate China tea set adorned with dainty pink and yellow roses. There was a kettle dressed in a yellow doilie with two small cups and plates similarly wrapped. They were obviously special as they were covered and treated with care. But the wear on the pattern exposed its age.

She carefully took each piece from its covering and marveled at its quaint beauty, recalling her own toy tea set as a child where she would pretend to serve high tea to her dolls. Mira wondered what special meaning it had.

The living room left no clues as to the interests of the woman of the house. A few record albums from the 40s and 50s, but no books, except for a couple of cookbooks in the kitchen. It was all very average.

Although there was a lone porcelain statuette of women in turn-of-the-century garb, sitting precariously on a wooden chair, gazing into the distance.

Mira searched for other figurines, as usually people don’t collect just one. But it was the only one. Mira stared at the detail of the gilded age porcelain woman, pondering why this meant something. Did it remind her of herself or someone else or did she just take a shine to it? It didn’t look like anything of intrinsic value, just a keepsake.

Her mother and grandmother both collected figurines, almost encompassing a ceramic village, so she didn’t understand why someone would only have just one. But there was a lone statue of the woman perched atop the credenza.

Even in her bedroom, Mira found typical clothing and several more doilies. However, on the dresser this small wooden heart-shaped music caught her eye. It was beautifully etched with small inter-tangled ribbons. Inside was a petite gold cross necklace, a slender gold watch and a tarnished gold necklace that said Gladys.

“At least now I know her name,” Mira thought.

She dug deeper to find out about Gladys. As she cleared each drawer and closet, room after room, she found no important papers. Birth certificates, marriage certificates… nothing. But then again, maybe the estate people already retrieved them, she thought.

Amid her vanilla world, it was very difficult to piece together who Gladys was.

Now Mira was on a quest. With these couple of hints, she thirsted for more information, refusing to believe that anyone’s life could be so devoid of flavor. Was she married? Did she have children? Maybe she outlived them? It was a puzzle.

Yearning for answers, Mira felt compelled to attend the funeral. She heard about it from one of the neighbors in town.

When she entered the small village chapel, she saw a few neighbors she had spoken to and  recognized a couple people from the village. They all said they didn’t know Gladys, but Mira appreciated they came out of respect or obligation.

As she sat down in one of the pews, the minister went up to the podium. He spoke of how frail and fragile life was, but nothing specifically about Gladys. Mira doubted he even knew her or anything about her.

Then the minister asked for anyone close to Gladys to come up and talk about her. Mira darted her eyes left and right, but everyone sat there in silence. Indignant that no one would say a word about her in this her final departure, she proudly raised her hand.

“I’d like to say something,” she said and walked up to the podium.

“I didn’t know Gladys but I’ve spent the last few days in her world. She was a simple woman who lived a modest life, not making much of a ripple. Yet the things that were important to her glared like a beacon in the night.

She only had a few pieces of jewelry, but they spoke volumes. Her faith was evident with her cross. Her pride was clear with the tarnished necklace, which bore her name. And the slender gold watch engraved with congratulations on her retirement some years ago showed she was appreciated. The jewelry was encased in an embossed heart music box, which played an unfamiliar, lovely and sweet melody. I don’t know, but I’ll believe it was treasured by her as a gift from someone she loved.

The carefully wrapped delicate bone China tea service with kettle and two little tea cups told me she must’ve cared greatly about this item. Everything else in her pantry was quite stark and white but this item of color and pattern obviously meant something to her. I imagine she had tea every day and delighted at her pretty cups.

And then there was the solitary statue of the woman staring longingly into the distance. I envision this was Gladys, looking out at the world each day, even though the world didn’t see her.

Maybe no one else will remember Gladys but I will. Everyone needs someone to tell their story. So many souls are forgotten, lost in the void of time where the impact of their lives is forgotten to the centuries.

To me, life is not about the things you owned, what you did or how successful you were, but it’s about how those around you remember you and who you were.”

The gathered group applauded Mira as she sat down, satisfied that she did the right thing by Gladys and hoping those in attendance would remember her too.

After the service she went back to her car. Sitting next to her was a small cardboard box containing the embossed heart music box, the statue of the lady and the tea set that Mira traded to the estate company in exchange for her services. Mira would remember Gladys through her most prized possessions and give them a home, so she could always tell Gladys’ tale. True or fiction, Gladys would not be forgotten.
(c) Suzanne Rudd Hamilton 2023