As much as we may wish to believe it, our loved ones do not remain in the objects they leave behind. But the memory these artifacts evoke can make it feel as if they do. It is no wonder that so many of us struggle to let go of the belongings of those we miss most.
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My mom loved blue hydrangeas. When she passed away, it became the flower I loved most because it reminded me of her. I felt closer to her, knowing that her favorite plant was alive and well in my home. To this day, blue hydrangeas grace my table every anniversary of her passing.
It was the day my grandmother passed away. We were staying with my grandpa so we could be close enough to say our last goodbyes. Mom wanted to be there when grandma passed. I was young at the time, impatient for death and clueless about the weight on my mom’s heart. Instead of empathy, I offered the complaints of a bored middle school girl. While I dragged my mom to the mall, my grandmother took her last breath.
I didn’t understand then what I know now. The hurt that can come from being absent when a loved one dies can feel unbearable. It took my own mother’s death to realize what I had taken that day. Blue hydrangeas became my silent apology for my selfishness. Years before my mom passed, I asked her why she loved hydrangeas. Turns out, it was her mother’s favorite flower.
Sometimes we want our loved ones to live in the things they leave behind because we miss them. Other times, we’re trying to say, “I’m sorry,” knowing full well it’s too late.
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Sometimes the people we lose don’t die. Rather, they become absent from our lives. Despite knowing they’re still out there, a grieving process occurs. My younger brother has been in and out of my life for over a decade. Having consistent access to a phone is difficult when you’re living on the street.
Months, sometimes years, go by when we’re out of touch and it can feel like he’s slipped to the dark side of the moon. All I can do is wait, hoping that he’ll come back around. But while I wait, I’m also preparing myself for the worst-case scenario. The possibility that he won’t re-emerge is real. I find my ears pricked to the sounds of lawnmowers, the distant noise offering me a sense of hope.
I look for you in everything.
– Wet Nose
When he was still in diapers, he received a plastic riding toy tractor. For hours, he’d ride laps around our house. Once, around lap 72, the distinct sound of hard plastic wheels on the carpet stopped. I peered around the corner to see what he was up to. There he was, perched in fetal position atop his beloved tractor, fast asleep at the wheel.
The sound of a lawnmower brings a smile to my face. Memories of that sweet little boy asleep on his tractor come to the forefront of my mind. I’ve never been one to gravitate towards heavy machinery or construction vehicles. But thanks to my brother, seeing a lawnmower or a backhoe inspires me to send him a little prayer.
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Two years ago, my father passed away. It’s still a sharp pain in my chest. Only in the past few days have I’ve mustered the courage to delve into the belongings he left behind. So much of my grief process was put on hold as I attended to the ever-changing landscape of this pandemic.
Scanning the piles of worn-out brushes, dried up paints, and disintegrating pastels, I realize I’m searching for signs that he’s still here. But my rational brain recognizes their uselessness. He doesn’t exist in charcoal pens or dried out ink bottles. But as I roll his old art supplies around in my hand, I can’t help but feel his presence. The memory of us sitting side by side at the kitchen table, sketchbooks drenched in sunlight. It’s as if I can hear him explaining light and shadow.
As I roll his old art supplies around in my hand, I can’t help but feel his presence.
– Anon Gray
I know his spirit has moved on, but mine is resistant to this change. I’ve convinced myself that his laughter can be poured from those tubes of paint. That his encouragement can be spread across the page with his worn-out brushes. It’s difficult to carry on when our heroes fall.
For now, the crinkly sheets of old parchment and half-used watercolors will keep me company. The garbage can isn’t going anywhere. And who knows? Some of the wisdom, infused in my father’s supplies, just might have a lesson or two left to teach me. There’s value in leaving space to remember how it all began.
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When all is said and done, none of us will inhabit the stuff we leave behind. Still, my heart is comforted by the notion that my dad’s art supplies are something of a love letter from beyond. A final opportunity to connect amid the distractions of family life.
I’d like to believe that when the day comes to say my goodbyes, I’ll leave behind a similar trail of love letters. Reminders of my love in the plants I grew. Encouragement tucked into the notebooks I kept. Shadows of my admiration in the worn-out letters my children gave me when they were young.
Life has a funny way of offering us exactly what we need to move on. And it’s in accepting those gifts that we learn the power in letting go.
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Before you go, I just wanted to say thanks for reading. If you’re passionate about living a meaningful life that you can appreciate right now, you might like some of the other things I’ve written about.
I write here, but I also write over on Medium with publications like Change Becomes You, Illuminations, Be You, and The Writing Cooperative.
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Thanks so much for your support! ~ Anon
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