Four months after my mom passed away unexpectedly in October 2020, I began to think about what to do about her house. Should we sell it, or should we keep it? Deep in grief and overwhelmed by everything else that came with her passing, I decided it was best to postpone the decision for the time being.
This house was my childhood home—where Mom and Dad watched it being built, lived, and raised their three kids, along with multiple dogs, cats, birds, ducks, and bunnies. It’s where my dad lovingly cut and placed each knotty pine board on the living and dining room walls…where my sister, brother, and I would sneak out of bed to watch TV through the heating grate in the hall when we were supposed to be asleep… and where there was only one bathroom, so all five of us were constantly telling whoever was in there that they were taking too long.
These and other fond memories flooded my mind as I pondered whether to keep or sell Mom’s house. A year later, I spoke with my siblings. We shared our thoughts during our discussion and decided that selling was the best option.
The smallest things can hold the greatest memories.”
During the cleaning-out process, I came across a green fan spray nozzle in the backyard.
Made of hard plastic, it was dented and had a thin crack in the screw-on attachment part. In a nostalgic sort of way, I thought it was beautiful. At that moment, memories of my mom came rushing back—her curly black hair, black-framed glasses, shorts, and white sleeveless blouse, one hand on her left hip as she lovingly watered her garden plants, container pots, and grass with her right hand.
I packed the nozzle in my suitcase to take home with me.
When I returned home, I excitedly but carefully twisted it onto my hose, put it in my right hand, and watered my plants and pots. I smiled. I can’t quite explain the feeling of using that sprayer—it was as if I were back home, watching Mom tend her small, pretty backyard again.
It made me think about the connection we get from the things our loved ones used and left behind. Before my mom passed, I never gave much thought to that silly old spray nozzle. It was always on the low wall in the backyard for easy access—it just wasn’t that important. But after she died, it became one of the most precious items I wanted near me. More extraordinary minds than mine could probably explain why, but my simple interpretation is this: I feel close to my mom when I use it.
One afternoon, I picked up the hose with the fan sprayer and turned the water on full force. I accidentally dropped it and heard a crack. I carefully picked up the end of the hose and saw a hairline crack running across the top of the nozzle, where water was now spraying out. The original crack in the threaded part had worsened—it was hanging on by a thread.
My heart sank. I shut off the water, grabbed some tape, and tried to put it back together. But the cracked piece that connected to the hose had completely broken off. I sat on the ground and cried.
I felt silly being so upset over a spray nozzle. But when I composed myself, I realized my reaction was only natural. My mom’s death had shocked my system. I held in so much emotion—there was so much to take care of after she passed, and I needed to stay strong and present. That nozzle became important because it was a part of her. It symbolized my connection to her.
Not long after, I started looking for a replacement—one that felt just as right. I wanted one with five rows of holes, just like Mom. But it eluded me until one day, at my neighborhood hardware store, I spotted a purple metal spray nozzle hanging on a peg. It was a little narrower, but it had those five rows. I bought it.
When I screwed it onto the hose and watered my newly planted lavender, catnip, and peppermint, I smiled.
