treasure hidden in a field. It's a sad thing when a major part of your life ends up at the bottom of a trashcan. Three large packing boxes line the wall, marked with the words Family Yard Sale Charity The boxes are filling up fast. Another, much smaller carton, stands alone in the corner. It's labeled Mother So far, nothing's gone into that one. "Daddy's been gone for five years," Dorothy said. "You can't take care of yourself anymore, Mother. That stroke left you paralyzed on one side. You can't walk without assistance. You can't cook for yourself. You barely can comb your own hair." She sweeps her hand toward the row of boxes. "Do you know what you've become, Mother? You're a hoarder." Dorothy glides past me with an armload of my stuff. She doesn't pause to ask my opinion, just tosses my personal things into whatever box fits her whim. Or she feeds my precious treasures into the trashcan. Then she moves on as if I'm not even here. As each item leaves my daughter's hand, I travel back to another time and place.