Reckoning With My Dead Husband’s Belongings
I still have the shirt he wore the day he died
His shoes sit under the hallway table. His socks, not yet washed, remain tucked inside the sneakers.
His coffee mug rests on the kitchen drainboard. Not used for four years.
His jacket is ready by the front door. The fabric now shaped like the hook where it hangs.
His cap, keys, and wallet lie on the table next to the garage door. Gathering dust.
This July marks the fourth anniversary of my husband’s death. I have yet to remove many of his personal items from sight.
I’ve tried. But I falter. I cry. Then I place the item back in its original spot as a visual reminder.
These are pieces of him. Sometimes I hold them or wrap myself in his jacket, hoping to capture the feel of his last touch.
I am not materialistic except for his belongings. Disposing of these items or even storing them in a box feels like watching my husband die all over again.
It took me two years to close his bank account even though I was a signatory. When I did, I cried at the bank. I came home and cried. Tears fall as I write this.
My husband worked so hard to maintain his professional account. He survived the feast and famine, often experienced by architects. Their profession is the frontline victim of the real estate boom and bust cycle. He struggled but succeeded for more than six decades.
Closing his architectural business account felt as if I erased all his effort — gone was his 92 years of a kind, honest, talented, dedicated, and professional life.
I am told everyone grieves at their own pace.
Clearly, I am not ready to let go. So I take baby steps.
His engineering books are stacked ready for shipping. Our grandson, also an engineer, is an eager recipient. The thing that holds me back, I don’t want to cry at the post office. I am working on remaining composed. But I’ll cry, so I’ll bring plenty of tissues.
The shirt he wore the day he died. I stored it, neatly folded, in a plastic bag, hoping to save his scent.
I open the seal when the ache of loss overwhelms me, and I breathe in the faint aroma of Williams Lectric Shave and his perspiration.
But recently, all I smell is plastic.
I’ve lost his scent. I am not ready to lose daily sight of his shoes, jacket and coffee cup. Not yet anyway.
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