Holding on

As I clean out the house after my mother's death, I am left deciding what to keep and what to remove. This process is easier said than done. Everything I touch hold a memory; her hands once touched every item. She kept things in bins; these things were important to her in some way, important enough for her to save them. How do I discard them? I have decided to wait a year, and get my mind in a better perspective before I remove anything else.
Items I thought I had lost long ago were found in rolled up doilies, things from my childhood, things she saved so I wouldn't lose them.
She was such a strong woman. Even when she was at her sickest she still managed to do a load of laundry, feed the animals, do the dishes. My mother was amazing. I can't even begin to describe how much I loved her.
I thought she could do anything. Whenever I couldn't do something, she could. During her cancer treatment, she never complained. It was almost as if the sicker she got, the stronger she became. When she was unable to walk more than a few yards, she would say that maybe tomorrow would be better. I guess I never really knew how horrible she felt because she never showed her pain. I should have seen it, but chose I think, not to. It was easier on my mind to believe there was still hope, to believe she would recover, to believe she was going to live. If I could turn back time, there is so very much I would change, but I cannot, and have to live with my actions. Did I take good care of her, yes I did, but I could have done better.
June 1, 2010 was the first time she ever needed a wheel chair to get into the doctor's office. When the exam was over the doctor decided that a few days in the hospital was a good idea, her wbc was critically low. She never came out of the hospital. She died June 21, 2010.