These Foolish Things Remind Us of Them & More News Here

There’s nothing left for me
Of days that was
They’re only a reminiscence
Among my souvenirs —”Among My Souvenirs,” Edgar Leslie

About a 12 months after Tom died, I took his toothbrush out of the holder within the rest room.

And I put it in a drawer.

I’ll throw it out sometime. Probably. Maybe.

It took some time longer earlier than I used to be capable of dispose of the all-but-empty Costco-size bottle of olive oil that was the final bottle of olive oil he’d purchased. I did handle to really throw that away—after I took a photograph of it.

We don’t have them, however we nonetheless have their issues, the issues they touched. And this stuff, even essentially the most mundane, maintain super energy. Joan Didion wrote about this in The Year of Magical Thinking, her memoir of grief after her husband died:

I opened his closet and stuffed extra baggage: New Balance sneakers, all-weather sneakers, Brooks Brothers shorts, bag after bag of socks. I took the baggage to St. James’. One day just a few weeks later I gathered up extra baggage and took them to John’s workplace, the place he had stored his garments. I used to be not but ready to handle the fits and shirts and jackets however I assumed I may deal with what remained of the sneakers, a begin.

I ended on the door to the room.

I couldn’t give away the remainder of his sneakers.

I stood there for a second, then realized why: he would wish sneakers if he was to return.

The recognition of this thought under no circumstances eradicated the thought.

I’ve nonetheless not tried to find out (say, by gifting away the sneakers) if the thought has misplaced its energy.

I didn’t think about Tom would wish his toothbrush once more, however I nonetheless couldn’t transfer it. Seeing it conjured for me a comfy feeling: shuffling round earlier than mattress, heat and sleepy—I may virtually really feel him within the subsequent room, in his blue-and-green flannel pajama bottoms.

Except, of course, the toothbrush was an equally highly effective reminder that he was not within the subsequent room, that he would by no means once more be within the subsequent room. And so the sight of the toothbrush warmed and broke my coronary heart concurrently. For a full 12 months, shifting it was unimaginable.

The energy and the ache

I felt a bit of sillier concerning the olive oil, however actually, just a bit, as a result of if that’s what I wanted to do, that’s what I wanted to do. (See: “Am I Crazy? No You’re Grieving.”) These issues Tom touched held his essence for me in some unusual approach, or possibly they simply helped focus the ideas about him that waft by means of my thoughts each waking hour and a few sleeping ones.

(Although I don’t dream about him typically. I had just a few desires early on, however now they’re very uncommon. In griefland, desires of misplaced family members are main occasions that we meticulously parse for insights which may give us, if nothing else, a tiny new chapter—barely a sentence actually—so as to add to a narrative that has ended.)

Such issues maintain shocking energy. While on the lookout for a procuring bag sooner or later, I pulled one out from an area restaurant marked with Tom’s title for pickup. This reminder of one evening of our many collectively (not that I keep in mind which specific evening) triggered a tragic spiral that lasted days. He was right here, he introduced dwelling dinner, he had a reputation on the planet outdoors. This paper bag with a black magic marker scrawl informed a narrative of love and life and dinner. I put the bag again with the others, the place it’s going to stay in the intervening time. Possibly perpetually. And that is no one’s enterprise however mine.

These silly issues, as one other music goes, symbolize a life collectively. They are usually not grand in which means like marriage ceremony rings, pictures, love letters (not that these have been Tom’s type), however they include energy of their very homeliness, concrete reminders of the small moments that weave two lives collectively.

Some individuals have teddy bears made of their family members’ clothes; I’ll have a quilt made of Tom’s T-shirts as quickly as I can bear to chop them up. Right now, his closet continues to be full of his garments, however sometime I’ll empty it—apart from issues I can’t half with, many of which I put on. When I placed on his overalls to do yardwork, I turn into a bit of bit of him, and I like the sensation. And whereas I acquired rid of some of his sneakers, his day-to-day sneakers nonetheless sit within the closet, ragged and worn out and formed to his pricey ft.

Meaning within the meaningless

In grief, we would seek for indicators and symbols and meanings in all the pieces. I observed that the expiration date on a container of parmesan cheese was the day he died, which meant each completely nothing (Tom hated cheese) and but one thing. I stored that container of cheese till it was inexperienced. I used to be stopped in my tracks after I observed that his truck inspection expired the month he died.

Am I loopy? One girl I do know spent one of her final joyful instances along with her mom getting pedicures. She left her pedicure on gone its expiration date, didn’t even lower her toenails, as a result of they held the magic of that day along with her mom.

It solely sounds loopy when you have by no means grieved onerous. Don’t hearken to anybody who tells you “it’s time.” It’s solely time once you’re prepared. (For future reference, nevertheless, analysis means that photographing sentimental objects makes it simpler to get rid of them. )

Letting go slowly

I gave some of Tom’s shirts to 1 of his brothers lately, and as I took them off the hangers, I considered how Tom put them there, how he was the final one to the touch them.

Everything I contact of his, all the pieces I transfer, all the pieces I give away, is one other little goodbye. For now, I strive to do that mindfully, deciding on the individuals to whom I’ll move issues alongside.

Someday I’m certain I’ll be hauling baggage to Goodwill. Someday I’ll clear out his closet. Someeday I’ll promote his truck, which sits, not working, in my driveway, the place I can lean towards it generally and suppose of him. His pockets, glasses, and keys sit on his dresser and sometime I’ll tuck all of them in a drawer, out of sight.

But not but.

I threw out the bottle of olive oil; that’s sufficient for now.

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