My mother’s apartment building storage locker changed a few times after I moved away.
When she finally went into a hospice, I wanted so much to ask her which locker was hers now, because I figured it would rub in the fact that she was dying. She died the day after she went in.
So unfortunately, I never retrieved my Winnie the Pooh, Raggedy Ann and so forth when we were cleaning out her apartment.
Her very weird, hostile me-no-speak-English super wouldn’t answer his door, and eventually I just got depressed from trying the key in hundreds of padlocks.
My mother used to joke that I was going to walk down the aisle with that bear instead of a bouquet.
