Travel brings out the scaredy-cat in me long before take-off. With each item I place in the suitcase, my apprehension escalates until I'm convinced a safe return home is impossible. The plane crash, crazed killer lying in wait under my hotel room bed, unsafe-at-any-speed rental car--all become sure things, along with an outbreak of Legionnaire's Disease II.

    Whenever my mother traveled, I called the day before she left to wish her a bon voyage. She could never talk too long because she had to get the bed in the guest room (which she used as a holding place for various projects) cleaned off. "Do it when you get home," I always told her. She pooh-poohed me, saying she wanted everything tidied up, "Just in case."

    "Just in case" happened eight years ago. My mother, returning from a vacation, felt sick after alighting from the plane. Her friends, who picked her up at the airport, took her to the hospital right away, but Mom passed away that night. She would want me to tell you the truth: her apartment was spotless, the spare bed was covered only with a lovely comforter and decorator pillows and the refrigerator was so clean you could have eaten out of it.

    On a small chest in Mom's bedroom was a stack of prayer cards from funerals she had attended. Next to them was the poem (still in the mint green frame) that had been displayed amongst the pictures at my stepfather's funeral. "I'm forever with you," it began. I've often wondered if these items were permanent fixtures set atop the wicker box or if Mom put them out every time she traveled. Just in case.

    With this in mind, before leaving on a trip last week, I got busy. I shredded every piece of discarded mail overflowing the plastic bin in the pantry, threw out iffy-looking food in the fridge, emptied waste baskets, and straightened up underneath the bathroom sinks. With a little effort, my usually disorganized desk looked neat as a pin and I moved on to the kitchen to Soft Scrub the sinks. My husband cleaned the toilets before being asked; he knows it's inevitable.

    When I told all this to a friend, she said it is nice to come back from a trip to a clean house. Upon learning the real reason for my housecleaning, she said I shouldn't spend so much time thinking about dying. It's not that, I tried to explain. Really, I do it for the living.

    Leaving for the airport the next day, before I closed the back door, I took a good long look at my house for what I knew was the last time. What will the kids think when they open this door, I asked myself. Will they be upset I did the cleaning, the easy stuff, and left them the heavy work--the tough job of boxing up treasured memories? Will they feel my love and pride for them in every thing I've saved and carry that with them forever? I walked to the car certain they would.