My mom, bless her darlin’ heart, walked down to her mystery book group at the Rumford Public Library back in February, 2005, and never returned to her home on Washington Street. What happened to Allegra wasn’t a mystery: she slipped and hit her head, which caused an uncontrollable bleed because of her blood-thinning medications. She died several weeks later.

Mom dodged a bullet. She never had to clean out her home, figure out how to get help in Rumford, or face the challenges of moving in with a child or moving to assisted living. Worse (or better) than that, she had a house full of furniture, quilts, letters and photos from both her parents and her in-laws. And none of that stuff had been winnowed either.

Sunday’s column by Bill Nemitz outlines what happens next: we try to go through the stuff that has outlived our loved ones, and imbue each item with a memory or a piece of a parent.I can’t get rid of the lusterwear pitcher, even though I don’t want it and it doesn’t fit in my life or my house, because it stood on my mother’s mantel….and her mother’s mantel….for years. I have the pictures to prove it: my mom at 13, with the same pitcher in the photo’s background.

I’m glad I’m not alone with my feelings of guilt for finally allowing this sort of family item to move to a new home,  and grief  for what it represents. It’s the Magical Law of Contagion, from Scottish social anthropologist Sir James Fraser. We give items their significance because they are more permanent reminders of a time or place or action.

I’ve solved a little of my problem by taking photos of these things and writing what I know and putting it in an album. There. Now the item (the double-knit dress, the awful fake blue cocktail ring, the small china cat) can move along, because I have cataloged the reminder.

Elizabeth Peavey, a brilliant Portland comedic writer who’s been amusing for years, has actually written a play about trying to sort through and part with her mom’s flotsam and jetsum. It’s called “My Mother’s Clothes Are Not My Mother” and it will premier at the St. Lawrence Arts Center in Portland on September 15. To be honest, just reading the Bill Nemitz column about her brought tears of recognition.

I’ll take some of my mom’s hankies when I attend.