A stale stench crawls up my nose as I enter my parent’s room. It, along with the nightstand, hold reminders of suffering—a spit tray, an empty glass with a straw, and numerous bottles of medication. A little jab hits my heart as I discard the items. The blue ribbon tied around dead Lilies of the Valley sells out that they are the ones Donovan brought when we last visited three months ago. In light of the new mystery Mom brought forth yesterday, I’m unsure if seeing them would help Donovan feel love or bring about a greater disturbance in his soul. With a snap, the vase and its contents are thrown into the trash.

Bags and boxes of clothing donations are gathered before I move on to clean the vanity where my grandmother’s antique brush set calls for salvation. Suddenly the dreary house turns lively with a jangle of music that transports me to my childhood. Tossing the brush into the box of things to send home, dreariness is abandoned as I rush downstairs, following the perky melodies of some of my favorite Brits with an indelible smile.