I've been trying to declutter my home in anticipation of moving to a new place. It's not easy or pretty to wade through the piles of stuff and things that accumulate over a 20 year period. All of what I must go through, box by box, reflects a life that in so many ways no longer exists for me. It's a veritable archaeological dig.
Most folks, faced with the task of decluttering, can go through the photos, school papers, drawings, yearbooks, boy and girl scout uniforms and pins and sashes, and simply remember with a smile what happened years ago. And so often found treasures can be shared with those who helped make the treasure. "Remember when you made this for me?" "Didn't we love to take the kids to the book store on Saturday where they bought all these books and comic books?"
But sometimes life just smacks us upside the head and rearranges all plans and paths. You can go through the clutter and find that there is no one to share the memories with. You sit there, and cry, and no one is around. All you can do is remember, and hold on to whatever object transports you back to a time in your life "before" it was all taken from you.
When your child or spouse or best friend is taken from you, you cling to anything that was ever part of them. It's how we fool ourselves into staying one step ahead of the pain of loss. We can time travel back to a time when that person was here and tragedy had not wiped out that part of our life.
In trying to unclutter, I am forced to relive big pieces of my life gone forever. There is no continuation of what my son was, or what he did, or what he could have done. My son's life ended just short of his 21st birthday. It is not possible to look at his picture proudly holding the French horn, or hanging out with his friends at music camp, or dressed in his Boy Scout uniform receiving his Arrow of Light award, or his photos with his sister and Santa, without jumping ahead to the dark days that awaited him and his ultimate tragic death.
In the process of uncluttering, I find myself refusing to toss out any piece of paper or photo or object that has any connection with him, no matter how tangential. I foolishly soothe myself with the notion that if I can't hold on to him, I can at least hold on to something that was connected with him.
Several years have passed since that unspeakably awful day in June when "I heard the news today" that my son had died. My life since that day has been divided into things that existed "before" and things that came into existence "after." It is a silent calculation I do not share with anyone because it seems so macabre, and indeed it is. But this is how I have come to define my life. "When did I last paint the house/replace the mattress/travel to San Francisco/buy these shoes?" "When did I last visit this place/person?" "When did I stop going to movies/listening to music?" Always, the answer is "before" or "after" that horrific day in June.
As I force myself to go through boxes of paperwork, school work, photos, cards, mementos, and leftovers from "when he was still here" I force myself to come to grip with reality. He is not the photo. He is not the poem he wrote to the great love of his life, Denise. He is not the scrapbook of his piano recitals. He is not the hospital records. He is not his Ramones Tshirts or his jeans. Those are just tags, snapshots, Instagram photos posted in my mind.
My son is part of my cellular structure. Even if all those tangible objects vanished, he would still be part of me. Knowing that makes it a bit easier to cull through the chaff and keep only the wheat of these objects stuffed into boxes in my garage. So, in my effort to declutter in anticipation of a move out of the home we shared, I will keep what brings me joy in remembering when he was in this plane and physically in my life. My baby boy, my life's joy. Your sister and I miss you every day. And we miss you with or without the physical reminders.
But still I will hold on to the physical reminders. Your dinosaur baby blanket, ironically made for you by my best friend Heidi, who I also lost too soon. Your notes and cards. The Brio train set. Favorite books. Herds of plastic dinosaurs. Books and comic books. Photos. The sand painting from the Hopi on your trip to Arizona with your archeology class. The leather bracelet with your drawings on it that you made for me in 6th grade. Somewhere, somehow, all of those items and more still carry part of your spirit and give me a bit of peace.
Not clutter. Connection. It's good to have more than feathers, and dreams. These objects may be just clutter and junk to the Marie Kondos of the world, but to me they are part of you. They remind me that a bit of your spirit remains with me. And so I find a bit of joy...sad joy....but still joy in these physical reminders of you.
Copyright 2019
Copyright 2019
