Water in my Hands

When I was a child, I used to spend hours in the tub.  I remember cupping my hands and trying to hold on to water.  I was fairly convinced that it could be accomplished, yet no matter how hard I clenched my fingers together, the water would eventually drip out of them, and my little puckered hands would be empty.

One of the things that has most characterized my experience since being thrust into widowhood is the need to let go of things.  I’m pretty sure the very first day I said I needed to move, and that was repeated over and over.  At that point I began giving things away, selling things, and making it so that I wasn’t moving all of accumulative bits of life hoarding.  

I often verbally put the blame on Storm for the hoarding, but the truth is, I tolerated it, and even somewhat participated, since it seemed to be what he needed or wanted to do, and I always wanted to give him what he wanted.  It didn’t get too extreme, and usually when his interest swung to some other thing, it was time to get rid of the old stuff.  Usually.

Even so, after almost a decade of co-habitation, there was a lot of stuff to sift through, and I moved a lot of Storm across town with me.  Over time, those things have diminished and widdled down until it’s more of my life and less of ours.    I’ve repurposed and repainted and re-gifted and sold some things I thought I would use, but I do not. 

The things I give away or sell, those things have memories and stories attached to them.  They seem like junk, or maybe usable but neglected items, but they are really totems of a past life I can never have back.  My life with Storm is slipping through my fingers, and I am totally unable to stop the dripping, and now I’m pretty sure it’s a useless and futile gesture to try. 

The fridge and freezer in my back yard were no exception.  I intended for them to be something else; something more.  They were neither one of them worth a penny.  But both of them were stories and memories of our life together.  I wanted to use the fridge to store drinks in the summer in the hangout spot, and convert the giant heavy freezer to a smoker.  Neither of those is practical or even makes sense.  But it was probably more about not letting go.    

They were not valuable in any sense.  They probably still functional.  The fridge he got for $20 from a neighbor who was evicted.  The stove, which is long gone, had a nickel to replace the timer knob and was also $20 at the Teen Challenge store; for some reason his favorite place to buy castoffs.  He brought home plenty of old, beat-up things without consulting me.   The freezer we got for free.  Sort of.  It took the labor of four grown men and one supervising woman to get it out of the strangest basement I’ve ever seen.  While we were there, we also scored the lovely shelves which have been repainted and mounted above my bed and the table I haven’t decided what to do with.  I admired her art; she was a welder, and enjoyed their tiny little multi-story home.  

This past week, my daughter got her tiny home trailer, and she and her fiancé are going to start building in my backyard soon.  They needed to put the trailer in there, and so they asked if we could get rid of the appliances.  I agreed.  A man came to take them to the dump; making money for his family.  I also sold the hitch-rack, which carried memories home to Oregon from Illinois when we threw it all away to come home.  I no longer have the van, and it didn’t make sense to keep something that has no use.  I hope the man who bought it gets years of use out of it.  

It’s not that I care about the things.  They are just things.  But it used to be I could look around any space I was in, and everything I owned came from my prior house.  Now, I see fewer and fewer things that remind me of him and carry the memories of us being us.  The empty spot where the big white appliances stood looks like a missing tooth.

I keep trying to clench those fingers together.  The memories keep slipping through.  

What I can hold on to is that the future is coming.  The things we do will build our memories for tomorrow.  Over the next months, literally a house will emerge from the backyard, and there will be a new union, and maybe more grandbabies.  I will wish Storm was here, helping them build it, pushing the project with his endless energy.  I will miss him at the wedding surrounded by married couples and my +1 as my last single daughter.  I will cry for him in the weeks that come, but each new thing that is mine; each new memory is a life still being lived.  

I’ve become accustomed to being a widow.  I have never in my life been single as long as this, but it seems to be less strange every day.  I’ve become accustomed to talking to myself or my pets, I’m coming to enjoy having things my way, and I feel less like Mrs. Treasure and more like Widow Treasure with every new morning.  I miss so many things that filled my life with a richness and a beauty that I can never replace, but I also have found a new peace in those absences; a place to grow as the individual that I probably always intended to become.  

I learned an expression: living forward.  That is all that any of us can do.  We can keep walking forward down this path.  I don’t anticipate great joy or great triumphs or even a sense of completion.  I’ll settle for a well-planted garden, happy spoiled grandchildren, and a contented soft cat to pet.  

Thanks for reading.