Every Mother’s Day, when my daughter was a little girl, she gave me a small bear.
She picked each one out herself at the card shop. Her dad helped her pay. By the time she was grown, I had nine of them.
For years, they sat together on a shelf. And once in a while, my daughter would look at them and say, “I’d like those someday, Mom.”
Someday.
This fall, I picked one up to dust it, and I stopped. What was I waiting for?
She wanted them. I was only dusting them.
The next time she came for the weekend, I packed all nine in a shoebox with tissue paper. I handed it to her at the kitchen table.
She opened the lid, and her eyes filled up. Then she laughed, the same way my mother used to laugh. (She always does that, and it gets me every time.)
A week later, she sent me a photo. All nine bears were lined up on a shelf in her living room.
I got to see that. I didn’t have to wonder.
There’s a name for handing things down while you’re still here. People call it giving while living. And in my 60s, it has become my favorite way to clear out my house.