Yesterday afternoon, my wife and I had a chance to revisit our past in a very big way. Like the royal wedding in Windsor Castle earlier in the day, where the parade of the world’s elite on their way to the chapel spurred a flood of memories for onlookers, our own special, remotely related experience amounts to a nostalgic walk, yielding at every step a flood of old faces, attires, and all things British. Ours was the opportunity to get involved in cleaning up my mother’s estate, a massive horde of boxes of stuff that she had managed to gather over her tumultuous lifetime. Nothing got pitched. Fine bone china, tea sets, books, ladies hats, dresses, shoes, suits, cutlery, pictures, tapes, cars, utensils, sweaters, Afghans, rugs, photos, mementos, albums, notebooks, and that was only the first installment of what looks like four more in the weeks to come. Yes, we were looking for a couple of special keepsakes, but do you think our mother would make them easy to find? Every last thing was double-wrapped and bound in yards of parcel tape, making it extra hard to break into our past. When I came across some tacky object that I recognized from my childhood, I would cry out in a burst of glee and begin to share a special moment with those around me which, over the course of the next couple of hours, lead to more discoveries. Trust me, everything in that humungus pile of mawkish, long-lost, moth-eaten possessions likely had a story behind them that reflected in some way the eccentric life of our mother, but I could only recall a couple of them, of the less illustrious variety. Mostly, it was trashy, pretentious kitsch that too often occupied the most prominent places in any one of twenty places she called home over the years. On this special day, when like the British royals who are trying to turn the next chapter in their collective lives while dealing with the larger-than-life memory of Princess Di, with the wedding of Harry and Meghan, I, with my siblings, struggle to tidy up our mother’s unwieldy estate. Only when we are free of this behemoth task can we then say that our mother has finally become a distant memory that comes with its own special sentimental charm.