Mother believed in tchotchkes more than she believed in her own diagnosis.
Bisque porcelain angels, blown glass ballerinas and salt and pepper shakers shaped like nesting hens constantly materialized on every available surface of our home. When the oncologist told her she had maybe six months to live, she picked up the pace. Every other day, a new package would arrive from eBay or the Home Shopping Network, emblazoned with a warning: FRAGILE.
“You can’t take them with you, Mother.”
“I’m not planning on going anywhere, Glenny,” she said. As though the collective presence of a hundred ceramic clowns and litters of mismatched hodgepodge cats would be enough to weigh down her corporeality, keeping her anchored in the material world for good.
Mother’s favourite knick-knacks were a pair of H
