Takes A While
Sometimes it just takes a while. I’ve had on my short list, for a few months, “daddy”—meaning “write something”. It’s been several months—sometimes I feel them. Every one of them. And sometimes it feels like it hasn’t happened but that always leads to a quick sad realization. Oh, it felt so fast. Daddy, we didn’t think it would be that fast.
As much as Daddy missed Momma, {They grew up together so he barely knew any life without her.} he tried to make the most of life in those nearly 7 years he had to live without her. He went out with old friends. He fished. He made new friends. He traveled. He sent birthday gifts. He managed and cared for a home. He fished. He went to church. He welcomed great grandchildren. He shopped for Christmas. He fished. He carried on traditions. He fished. : ) He planted gardens. He cooked meals for his friends {with help from Megan and then Mrs. Karen} and for us. And he worked—at the drugstore with the people he loved so much. I was so proud of him-- for the way he grieved and the way he chose to live. I made sure to tell him and I found that note in his nightstand when I was cleaning out a couple of weeks ago. I can hope that means it encouraged him.
Going through my parents’ things has been ---well, I don’t think there is a word fitting for this task. I can’t think of one that encompasses such a thing. And is “task” even a good word for the experience that it is? What word would hold so many things like grief, loss, sentiment, memories, surprises, quantity, joy, decisions, overwhelm, tears, keepsakes, eye rolls, chuckles, irritation….. ? Like grief, this experience is pretty universal. At some level, settling one’s parents’ affairs is just part of the human experience, but until it’s you doing the “settling” you just can’t know what to expect.
I put myself to this task for an entire week at the end of July. I had not planned on working the afternoon I arrived but just looking around, it felt daunting. Thinking about it, looking at it all felt like work. Overwhelming. The kind where you don’t know what to put your hands to first. It’s a large home—home to our family since 1974. I was almost five and my brother was 7 when we moved in and my mom didn’t care much for cleaning out. To prove that, up until 2 weeks ago, there was still a box of Barbies in my room and original Star Wars figures in Blake’s. The funny quote my mom would tell me, "I'd rather do other things. You will do just fine with it when I am gone." I had my work cut out for me.
On day 1, I realized that photos were going to be the thing that slowed my pace to one of a cold snail. It seemed that pictures were showing up in almost every drawer or cabinet. As I lay in my childhood bedroom that second night I couldn’t sleep for thinking of all the people- family and friends- I had “seen” that day and when I did sleep, I felt like I was at a family reunion, talking all night. I decided no more picture sorting. I needed sleep for the days ahead.
Then there’s the thing where you feel you are poking around where you shouldn’t be. My dad had the same armoire since before I was born. {I found the receipt for it from a furniture store in Decatur. Yes, I did.} I can probably count on both hands how many times I have opened the thing up in 50 years {it was forbidden territory} but now I can say, I have exhausted its contents and have touched every little thing in it which wasn’t very exciting at all. My favorite thing, though, was taped to the inside of one of the doors with the list of our growing family’s birthdays—Landry Kate and Brooks Blakely penciled in. Well, maybe another favorite thing was an old picture holder that went in a wallet with small studio or school pictures of Blake and me—progressing through the years. I guess he showed us to some people. But my point was, my younger self felt I was going to get in trouble for being in his armoire. My older self felt I was invading his privacy. I remember feeling this going through my mom’s things—but mainly her nightstand. I bet there are close to 300 letters that my dad sent to her from Vietnam. Now that feels very private. Does death mean there’s no more privacy? Is it okay to read them? Should I have asked her if I could read them one day? Still undecided on that.
I worked pretty much all day for the entire week. I put my head down and after that first day of too many photos, I tried to take the emotion out of it—not think too hard about what I was doing. But something was off—wasn’t settling well with me and I didn’t know what. I was having a little trouble on deciding what to keep and what not to. Well, maybe a lot of trouble. SO. MANY. DECISIONS. I was having trouble throwing things away, but I did. I had to and it wasn’t until I was back in Fort Worth that I realized what I didn’t like.
I would hold something in my hand… KNOWING it had been special to someone but at the same time KNOWING I could not keep everything KNOWING as soon as I put it in the big black Hefty bag…
….it became trash.
Just typing that makes me want to put both hands over my face and shake my head. I didn’t like that. I didn’t like being the one, in 2024, who decided what was trash and what was not. I love my family. I am sentimental. I want to honor those who came before me ….. but I couldn’t keep everything. I had to make hard choices. The pile of big, black bags made me sad.
My week in Soperton came to a close. For 6 days straight, I did my “job” and now, it was Sunday. I got up as usual, went for a walk, made some coffee and went upstairs to get ready to go to Daddy’s Sunday school class. Mom’s best friend, Brenda, still teaches it and I’ve gone with him {and mom} every time I’ve come home in the last decade or so. While I was getting ready, I had the most powerful memory to date.
For YEARS—probably all the way back to high school until, like, October 2023—I would probably be cutting the time close and I’d fly down the 14 stairs, make a U-turn into into the hall then into the kitchen and there Daddy would be—standing tall by the island, hair combed, face shaved, in a coat and tie and holding his Bible and the Sunday School curriculum under his arm….waiting on me.
Did I know this was a significant memory? Not until Sunday a couple of weeks ago, putting on make up in front of my 1984 light up mirror when suddenly the tears came, realizing he wouldn’t be standing there waiting on me to go to church. That made me way sadder than a thousand big black bags. There was a familiarity and a weight assigned to that experience every Sunday I’d find him there waiting on me and I had no idea until it was gone.
I guess sometimes these things just take a while.
And I’m here to feel the weight of every memory I can.
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