We just lost another loved one. Mourning is a period that is unpredictable, and undefined, and it is something that needs to be respected in others. The way we react to loss, there is no number of days that is appropriate, no level of emotion that is wrong. There are no set of rules that can dictate how hard it will hit because every connection is different. The love we share in each of the relationships that we build in our little lives is uniquely profound. No two relationships are the same and the strength of each connection is immeasurable, so much so in fact, that a loss can often sneak up and make for a huge surprise.
As a general guideline, the more contact is made the deeper the loss is felt. Like if someone in the home passes; someone that we see and share space with every single day, then the grieving is likely going to be a tougher process than someone distant and sparse, then again, its still just a guideline.
When my mother lost her husband, his wardrobe stayed in the closet for years. There was no explanation for it, and there was no need. I know I never heard anyone question that. Mom, two boys, and an empty seat at the table. An empty chair in front of the hearth. The clothes weren't empty. His smell was still in them. And so, there they stayed like a soft shrine. We could measure our growth by how much of his shoes we could fill. We could wrap our arms around the shirt tails and squeeze them while inhaling. Us boys were little, so keeping those clothes was perhaps an attempt to fill a profound family need. Sons without a father have an emptiness. A mother compensating for that requires no explanation. A new mother and new widow, can have a million reason as to why she keeps his boots, belts, jeans, flannels hanging in their place. We grew up with the lingering smell in the master closet as a surrogate for paternal guidance.
Decades later, even with the closet long purged, that misplaced guidance still sometimes lingers out there when called upon, just the way that emptiness does that. Its a dark vacancy. Whenever seeking answers and without the right person to turn to, the void is often all that is found. Like an undefined longing, out of sight, out of reach, yet persistent. That closet in the far corner of the master bedroom is still there, like an impotent memory, a false idol, a parcel that clung to our lives, unworthy of the very real person it represented. Memories become distorted over time. The man we lost isn't identical to the man we remember. The closet never made mistakes or got angry. It was inanimate and yet it was perfect.
In June of 2017 we gathered at a cousin's house, all of us a bit crabby, sweaty and burdened over the parsing out of grandmother's belongings. All in all, she had 2 full size storage units full of furniture, books, utensils, decor, all the things a greatest generation nonagenarian might have in her home, including things called "collectibles". It made me sad that her children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren were all gathered together, just to be cranks at one another over her stuff. Its a dishonorable way to let go of someone who dedicated so much of their life so that we could thrive. We may never all be assembled in one place like that again. A priority is remarkably misplaced in our humanity.
There is nothing quite like the acute and awesome power of death to really remind us how little importance there is in all the stuff we attain while we are alive. We miss the person when they go. Their soul is not living on in their belongings. The memory of the deceased lives on within us. We're the ones who attach that memory to the stuff and we don't need to do that. Our minds actually remember better without it. We'd be honoring their memory a great deal more justly if we were better at physically letting go, and instead hung onto how they touched our lives.
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