Letting Go of Things

My first attempt at letting go of anything tangible was trying to tackle a stack of papers that had been sitting untouched on his desk. While I had taken over this space as my own, I left most things on it exactly how they were. This, in a way, was his shrine. I had read stories about other widows leaving entire rooms untouched or various objects frozen in time. Toothbrushes, razors, reading glasses, shoes — all with closely held memories and traces of their loved one’s DNA left behind — unmoved from their last location for months at a time. Every item holding a connectedness to what once was. Things still here, while they were not. I found comfort being surrounded by his chosen inspirational images pinned to the bulletin board, the pens he had chosen to write with and the articles torn from their magazines that never quite made it into the creativity binders they were destined for. I would not need all these articles, or the random papers still sitting in the top right corner of the desk. I figured recycling these would be an easy place to start…but it was not. I was halted in my efforts by, of all things, a post-it note. On it: My first attempt at letting go of anything tangible was trying to tackle a stack of papers that had been sitting untouched on his desk. While I had taken over this space as my own, I left most things on it exactly how they were. This, in a way, was his shrine. I had read stories about other widows leaving entire rooms untouched or various objects frozen in time. Toothbrushes, razors, reading glasses, shoes — all with closely held memories and traces of their loved one’s DNA left behind — unmoved from their last location for months at a time. Every item holding a connectedness to what once was. Things still here, while they were not. I found comfort being surrounded by his chosen inspirational images pinned to the bulletin board, the pens he had chosen to write with and the articles torn from their magazines that never quite made it into the creativity binders they were destined for. I would not need all these articles, or the random papers still sitting in the top right corner of the desk. I figured recycling these would be an easy place to start…but it was not. I was halted in my efforts by, of all things, a post-it note. On it: 

     Shrimp, coconut milk, beer

     Scribbled down quickly and carelessly in his lovely yet indecipherable, calligraphy-ish handwriting, these ingredients had made for an incredible, forgotten meal. I no longer needed his shopping reminder, but it, and the many other 3 x 3 inch squares of paper with a slightly sticky strip on the backside I found in and around his desk, all had his handwriting on it. Phone numbers, reminders, to-do’s, whatever…it didn’t matter what was on it, what mattered was that he wrote it and would never be writing another post-it note again. I did not lack handwritten material — I had found notebooks, journals and sentimental cards galore — but at the time, I thought, “How could I ever part with anything he wrote?” These were the things shuffled into the boxes piled high in the garage.

     His clothing also filled many of those boxes. Within months after his death, well-intentioned friends and family members offered help, “Let’s sort through his clothes, I’ll take them away to Goodwill for you.” When they started offering, it was way too soon. While painful to open the closet or drawers filled with his personal belongings and feel the untouched stillness of it all, it was incredibly comforting knowing his things still inhabited the space. The left side of our closet was filled edge to the edge with his shirts, pants, jackets, suits, shoes, belts and ties. They still carried his scent. Drawers on the right side of each dresser contained everything else including the stash of “Daddy’s clothes” we all took part in wearing when the going got tough.

     A year in, I had attempted to let go. Opening his underwear drawer, I was confronted with a dozen or so pairs of his neatly folded, Calvin Klein boxer briefs. I stared at them for a moment.

     It’s just underwear. What are you going to do with men’s used underwear?

     I decided I was ready. I would start slow: underwear and socks. Those two items seemed to be the easiest to part with. I emptied the drawers of their cottony contents onto the bedroom floor.

     Underwear and socks. You’ve got more meaningful items to keep. You can let these go.

     I touched each item before placing them into a large, reusable Macy’s shopping bag. I didn’t want to use a traditional black trash bag, it didn’t feel right. The bag rode around in the back of the car for a few weeks, nagging me every time I opened and closed the hatch. I kept passing thrift stores and clothing kiosks still unable to let go. The morning the contents spilled out the back as the automatic door lifted open, as if trying to escape its in-between status, was the morning I knew. I drove directly to the nearest drop box and pulled out the bag. I peeked inside. The jumbled contents inside, removed from their drawer and distanced from their gatherings, had lost just enough of their emotional ties. After a brief, cerebral goodbye, I opened the drop slot and finally let go. It was a baby step needed to help accomplish others. Once I realized I was OK taking on this drawer, I felt more comfortable tackling the rest. 

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