Possessions Left Behind

 

            After a loved one’s death, we have to decide what to do with their possessions. Although there are some things that we wish they would have taken with them, many of their possessions have stories and emotions attached—their favorite coffee cup with the slight chip, the tools they used for their hobbies, the scent in their clothes, and their ashes.

 

            After Ev died, I wanted to keep everything, and I mean everything, even her handwritten notes on containers in the freezer identifying food, and the to-do list on the board, with smiley faces indicating her preference for which tasks we should tackle next. I didn’t want to lose anything that reminded me of part of her personality, laughter, or sense of style. As the survivor, I became the gatekeeper of her life. 

 

            Not all of her memories had possessions to remind me, and I worried that I would lose the everyday ones, like cuddling in bed, the happiness in her eyes when she woke in the morning, or her hand in mine as we walked around town doing our shopping. I didn’t know what I could do to ensure that I never forgot them. I saved the recording of her voice on our answering machine, and recorded a new message on a second channel so that I would always have her voice, but during a power outage several months later I lost this.

 

            There came a time when some of her possessions began to get in the way, like the bathrobe on the back of the door. After a year of taking it down every time I took a shower, I felt annoyed that I had to put it back up, which, of course, I didn’t. It was an old habit that no longer served a purpose, other than to keep her close. I realized that I was shifting from living with a person who had needs and desires to living with her shadow. I also understood that if I didn’t get rid of some of her things, I would never be able to reset the house for the living of one.

 

            I began by culling out items I would never use, like her dresses and shoes. Her business clothes were taken to a place that helped low-income women acquire the outfits they needed to interview for good jobs. A few clothes I kept for sentimental reasons, like her ruby red dress. Some I kept because they were tactile, like her nubby black sweater and her silky blue slip. I also kept the round onyx box that held her rings.

 

            Most of her hair care products went, as did her brushes and combs. I had no affinity for the ceramic bells she collected, and checked around to see who might appreciate them. Her teaching supplies were boxed and carted to one of her teaching friends who worked in an underfunded school district in Hayward and desperately needed classroom supplies. I took photos of what I gave away to remind me, in case I made a mistake.

 

            After several months of sorting what I found in drawers and closets, in boxes in the garage, and in boxes in the storage shed from our last move, I had pared, tossed, whittled, pruned, and shared on perpetual loan most of her things, and was down to four large boxes that would travel with me.

 

            If I eventually get down to one possession, I think it will be something that she never owned. Shortly after she died, I saw a red alabaster heart in a store. It was heavy and large enough to fill my hand, and I bought it. Her heart is what I treasure and miss the most—her love for me and her compassion for anyone who was suffering. This I never, ever want to forget.

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I write about about becoming a widower, going to Yosemite to hike, and letting nature guide me through grief in my book Mountains of Light, published by the University of Nebraska Press.