Five-Year Plan
You Can’t Get Rid of Love
And that’s a marvelous part of it.
Lately, I’ve grown accustomed to parting with things. If you’re going to live out of two carry-on bags, learning to get rid of things (or not get them in the first place) is part of the bargain.
I’ve spent the last week intensively going through my tings and letting go of things I don’t need anymore. So far, this list has included:
- Old correspondence
- High School Speech and Debate Trophies
- Notebooks and papers from grade school, high school, and college
- Mugs from various places I’ve visited
- Serving plates, dishes, and table linens I no longer want
I spent a large part of today going through boxes of drawings, baby clothes, and special toys from when my older kids were little. It was a long slog. We decided that we’d only keep some of their drawings and a few of the special outfits and toys.
I held each item in my hands, and I was transported back to when they were 5 or 10 or 15. One look at the Dragon Tales pajamas and I can see Ryan running around telling me he’ll never take them off, not even to wash them. I hold a picture of pirates that Ross drew, and I am transported to his pirate stage when he was going to learn everything he needed to learn to go off and sail the seas.
Then came Tegan’s box. I knew it was coming. I knew her things would need to be re-boxed. I wasn’t prepared for it. I truly thought I was, but I was wrong. Tegan was our daughter. I won’t go into her death here. I will say that all I have left is one box. A box with a few outfits (most of which she never got to wear), a pair of tiny baby shoes, a set of her footprints, and a few papers.
It is nearly twenty-two years later, and I cannot let that box go. I moved each item into a new box. I kissed them and cried. Daxton came over and hugged me. “I’m here,” he said. “Don’t be sad.” I told him that it’s OK to feel sad. It’s OK to cry, and it’s OK that there are things that cannot be made better.
I am keeping that box. I don’t need it in order to remember her. There’s nothing in it that ‘sparks joy’, but it is a physical representation of love. It’s a box of my love. Despite all the tears it brings up, I don’t think I could bear giving up that least bit of her.
Going through all the things that make up a life is hard. Maybe that’s part of what getting ready for this nomad adventure is all about. There will be fun parts, funny parts, boring parts, and hard parts, but no part will stand on its own without the background of what came before it.
I could send the box away, but the love inside it would never leave me. I keep it precisely because it keeps a small part of my heart open and raw. Having a tangible bit of my daughter, in a box, labeled with her name, creates a space for me to hold all the hopes and dreams I had for her without my heart tearing open completely. That raw open wound may never heal, but it will remind me that life is brief, wonderful, unpredictable, and the only time we have to connect with people we love.
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