Keeper of the Archives

I dare not claim I understand what happened that night, and to be honest... I try not to think about it.

 Four days after, I dwell again in the world of the living. Among people whose life-long ambitions and momentary goals shine through their brisk pace in the skyways and malls of downtown Minneapolis. The Wells Fargo center is a hub of activity—clicking heels echo against fine marble and the smell of crisp dry cleaned suits and professionally light perfumes fill the air. I get the sense that everyone around me is there for some modern purpose—opening new accounts, transferring money, tracking investments, renegotiating mortgage rates.  But we are there for a different purpose.

“I need both of you to sign,” the young man running the safety deposit vault says as he slides our IDs back across the counter.

We go with him to get the box and the sounds of the world disappear into heavy silence. In the small room we take it to, there is a single fluorescent light buzzing on the wall above a table, and we sit in the institutionalized chairs as we dig through the box looking for a small stack of envelopes. My father hands me one of the most faded ones and nods.

“Those are their citizenship papers.”

I look with reverence upon the faded images of my grandparents. Then I pull out my notebook and start writing. There is information on these forms that I need. Birth places, immigration dates, early addresses. All of it precious clues that will help me trace the family line as I go in search of names—in search of ancestors.

Because life doesn’t stop when someone close to you passes.

 Because our obligations to the dead do not end with those closest to us.

I know in my heart that my mother is traveling in the duat on her way the great halls somewhere beyond the liminal spaces I see in my dreams. I want her to have a proper ancestor shrine to return to when her journey is complete 66 days from now—but I do not want it to be empty save for her.

 There are other names to write on that list.

My experience with the spirit of E.M. just prior to her passing and my experience with Nebt-het the night of…my view of things has changed. My priorities have changed. For now, my mother’s name will be spoken often by those who knew her in life. But I know that, eventually, she will no longer be the most recent, most oft remembered name in our line. Eventually, she too will be a distant ancestor who exists mostly in faded pictures and aging legal documents. Someday I will suffer the same fate. For any of us to be remembered, all of us must be remembered. Future generations must look upon former ones with reverence and respect and feel the power and weight of their family history. Archives make that connection possible: without archives to back the names of the living, the names of the dead are swiftly forgotten and the power of the ancestry quickly lost.

I find other papers and scan them with my phone so we don’t have to spend too long at the box. An hour later, I leave with what records we have, prepared to research the rest. I am matron of the house now, I tell myself, it is my duty.

I am honored.