The group worked diligently for 8 hours. The only speaking was more like muffled yelling; commands being belted from under the din of smashing hammers and beneath dirty face masks. Wheel barrow after wheel barrow, trash can after filthy trash can, Ms. Patty witnessed her life removed from her home and dumped on to the side of the road in a damp molded pile, sitting dangerous and heavy awaiting a city fork lift and dump truck to take it to its final resting place, the city heap.

She had been putting off this day for over a year, THE ACTUAL DAY WHERE SHE MUST PART WITH EVER TANGIBLE MEMORY IN HER LIFE. For the last year, she would rather have them strewn about her house knotted in wet piles, stewing, rotting, molding, mouse infested, torn to shreds for warm rat nests, the moist cracks of her pile filling with fungus. She would rather have it this way, than out of her reach.

It all may be disgusting, but it was all hers.

Then we showed up.
A group of strangers who listened. And prayed.
And then we tore her house limb from limb.
And she made witness to it.
We were all engaged in her final moments of separation.

Some Home Owners dont do that. They show up, say (Katrina Sucked. Sucks.), then hand over the keys and say (Ill see you in 8 hours). I can understand that reaction, making the choice to not bear witness to the final moments of loss. I can understand removing yourself from any situation that may result in experiencing any more pain than these people already have endured. I can understand lying awake the night before 20 people show up to your home to throw it all away and just thinking to yourself, (Tomorrow will be horrible. I dont need to be a part of tomorrow. I dont need to put myself through that.) I get that.

But I also get Ms. Pattys choice. I understand her desire to be there, to actually witness the THINGS that make up her life being discarded. I understand her need to be watch, to partake in the process of lying to rest her lifes work. Of saying goodbye.

And as she did so, I watched. I watched her, her process. A thousand times over, she would pick something up, identify what it used to be, relive that memory, reliving that bit of her history encapsulated in it, finding a knowing smirk or a twinkle of her eye maybe, a roll of the eyebrows or a sigh perhaps, then I would watch as her composure drastically changed. She was no longer reliving a memory from a life time ago. No, she was embroiled in a personal struggle, deciding if this memory is TOO DEAD or NOT. A thousand times she had to make the decision to keep the infected remains of a lost story, or to finally part with it. To chuck it in the trash. And that decision did not coming easily for her.

As the day went on, it became quite clear that she could not let go. It hurt too much. She was too connected to her belongings, her memories, too connected, she could not LET GO.

To throw them away was to throw away a part of her life, a part of herself. I could see it and I could understand it. But good God was it difficult to watch. I could feel a churning in my own stomach. I developed a sympathy pain deep in my gut that developed with her unfolding mental anguish.