Letting Go of Things

My first attempt at letting go of anything tangible was trying to tackle a stack of papers left untouched on his desk. While I had taken over this space as my own, I kept most things on it exactly as they were. This, in a way, was his shrine. I had read stories about other widows leaving entire rooms or various objects untouched. Toothbrushes, razors, glasses, shoes—all with closely held memories and traces of their loved one’s scent and DNA left behind—unmoved from their last location for months or even years 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 Joe’s chosen inspirational images pinned to the bulletin board, the Paper Mate pens he loved to write with, and the articles torn from their magazines that never quite made it into the creativity binders they were destined for. I figured recycling the random papers still sitting on the corner of the desk would be an easy place to start . . . but it was not. In my first attempt, 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 yet forgotten meal. I no longer needed his shopping reminder, but it—and the many other three-by-three-inch squares of paper with a slightly sticky strip on the backside I found in and around his desk—all had his handwriting on them. Phone numbers, reminders, to-dos, 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 stuffed into those boxes piled high in my garage.

            His clothing also filled many of those boxes. Within months after his death, well-intentioned friends offered help. “Let’s sort through his clothes. I’ll take them away to donate for you.” When they started offering, it was way too soon. While painful to feel the untouched stillness of it all, it was comforting knowing his personal belongings continued to inhabit the space. The left half of our closet was jammed to capacity with Joe’s shirts, pants, jackets, suits, shoes, belts, and ties. It all 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 began to let go. Opening his underwear drawer, I was confronted with a dozen neatly folded Calvin Klein boxer briefs.

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

            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.

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. Using a traditional black trash bag—for a discriminating shopper like Joe—just didn’t feel right. The bag rode around in the back of my car for a few weeks, nagging me every time I opened and closed the back hatch. I passed thrift stores and clothing donation kiosks but couldn’t bring myself to stop. 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, pulled out the bag, and peeked inside. The jumbled contents, removed from their drawer and distanced from their gathering, had lost just enough of their emotional ties. After a brief, cerebral goodbye, I opened the large drop slot and finally let go.

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