After 6 weeks of basically living in my own filth, my sister and I decided to start attacking the pile of boxes, bags and laundry that I had dubbed "Fort Grief". Cans were recycled, clothing thrown into the washing machine and half-picked-at food scooped out of the pathway of an insistent pug.
Among the papers littering the living room was a piece of junk mail, stuffed fat with promises of "three free gifts inside!" I had to laugh as I opened it, revealing a small stick pin, a page of address labels and a pad of patterned paper. I remembered receiving a similar package last year, and that pad of paper sure had come in handy. I split it with my sister about 5 months ago and all 8 pages are covered in our writing and currently enjoying their new home, tucked within the hidden shelf in my mother's casket, .
The irony of the whole shebang is of course, that the this was all part of a fundraiser for the Heart and Stroke foundation.
"Less free gifts, more making sure my mom didn't die" I muttered to the envelope before shoving it in the trash.
I took it back out and put it in a drawer, incidentally. My mom wouldn't want me to throw out perfectly good address labels, after all.