When my husband died, there were reminders of our life together everywhere I looked. Sweet, lovely memories surrounded me, and those memories gave me much needed comfort in those dark, dark, dark days of despair and loneliness.
His favorite leather jacket hung in the closet next to my jackets and coats. His shoes lined the closet floor, and his drawers were filled with his favorite socks, underwear, and polo shirts. I would touch his articles of clothing, and whisper how much I loved him, and how much I missed him. It was a ritual I would do morning and night. This ritual made me feel close to him, a closeness that I longed for ever so much.
In the back of my mind, I knew that I needed to do something with his clothing, but I just couldn’t bring myself to go through his closet and drawers. I remember how when my mother passed away, my sister and I had to go through her clothing and make decisions on what to do with everything. There were dresses that she wore to her grandchildren’s weddings, shoes and purses that she loved, and coats that still smelled of her perfume.
It was something we had to do, something that was hard for both of us. There was very little conversation; we went about the task quickly holding back our tears. I knew only too well what going through my husband’s clothing would do to me, and I refused to do it.
I ignored the “rule” that tells us we need to get rid of the deceased’s belongings. Some people have no problem doing this; I was not some people. I could not bring myself to do it.
I believe that there are some “rules” that need to be broken. I believe that we must do what our heart tells us to do in situations like these, and that is just what I did. I followed my heart. To this day, his leather jacket remains in my closet next to my jackets and coats, a sweet reminder of him. In fact, his clothing remained in his closet for five years, and only until I moved from the house we called home for over 30 years did I donate some of his clothing.
Except there is one article of clothing that will always remain with me: his baseball cap. It always brings a smile to my face and a warm feeling to my heart. Eddie always left his baseball cap on the back seat of our car; it is still on the back seat of my car.
This baseball cap is special, it is the one that he left there before he passed away, and it is the one that he purchased when we were up at a resort that we loved. We had a condo there, and we would go up there for long weekends. Yes, this is a very special baseball cap – a baseball cap of memories. I have so many happy memories of our times together there, memories that are brought back just by looking at that baseball cap in the back seat of my car.
I especially remember when we went there to celebrate our anniversary, and he surprised me by having a huge bouquet of flowers in the living room when we arrived. Or, the time we celebrated my 50th birthday there, and he gave me a beautiful amethyst (my birth stone) and diamond tennis bracelet. I have worn this bracelet every day since he gave it to me. I could go on and on about the memories that baseball cap holds.
Yes, personal items help us to hold onto the memory or our lives together. They strengthen the bond that we have with our loved one. They provide comfort, and sweet, sweet memories of our lives together. His baseball cap does just that for me, and yes, it will always remain in the back seat of my car…it is truly a baseball cap of memories.
Ms Ezop ,
I have just stumbled onto your articles. It’s like someone is talking about me! My soulmate passed 27 months ago and I try to be connected to him always. I talk to him everyday. I have photos of him everywhere , one in particular I take from room to room with me so I am sure he is the first face I see in the morning, and the last face I see at night.. I also have had his baseball cap on the backseat of my car and that’s where it will stay. I have a closet still full of his clothes.
It’s true no one can understand the need to stay connected. I have seen a medium , and will continue to see her . Everything I do is a cherished memory we made together.I still smile at the funny things he would say , and the great things we did . I have had some amazing signs from him, and am always looking for more. I am so thankful everyday that we had our love and life together. Thankful our children.
I can’t wait to be with him again for eternity.
As I ponder this grieving I’ve been doing since June 3, 2022, this idea of “closeness” comes to me today. The closeness I had with my husband would be the closEST I’ve ever been to another human being. We were quite different in our abilities and interests. Yet between the two of us, we made a pretty well excellent whole “person.” Now that “person” has been ripped apart by death; am I, surviving, half of that whole? Or what AM I?
We have a tree on our land that had been planted with another tree woven around it. One of the trees had to go, though, because after many years, they were growing too big and damaging each others’ bark and allowing disease in. So a few years back, I cut one side off. The remaining tree has survived with scars on the bark where the other tree was wrapped around it.
Although I don’t THINK my closeness with my husband was damaging to me, I am now interested in that surviving tree.
Grief is continuing. It’s been more than six months. We have two recliners sitting in “our” living room, facing the TV, where my husband’s recliner was the one directly in front of the TV, since he watched it often, and I hardly ever even looked at it. But I would sit down in the recliner next to his to watch on occasion and to talk to him. They’re very comfortable, big, long, matching recliners that we had bought at the same time with the intent that we could sit right next to each other and still recline or not as we individually chose. They’ve always been perfectly aligned, right next to each other, very clearly set up, one for him, the other was mine. Since he passed over I sit in mine on occasion, and it seems to me that his spirit still sits in his. I talk to “him” sitting in this recliner many many times; I look at this recliner and, to me, when I turn the TV on at 6:00 pm, for him, his spirit still comes by to watch Star Trek. Or whatever I think he would like that is available at the time. I still recoil from the idea that he is completely … gone forever, not coming back. nope. I, like MA, have had some amazing signs that his spirit comes around, there were more at first, less now, but always unexpected and surprising and memorable!
Yesterday I contacted another widow and spent about 2-1/2 hours talking to her on the phone. After months of mostly solitariness, I was quite happy to have a new person to talk to and we seemed to have interests in common. Then my other friend called and talked for about 45 minutes; then my mother-in-law called as she has every night since my husband died; it was a really peculiar feeling to have had “enough!” talking! that had been going on for hours!
But by the time all the talking was over, and it was after 11:00 pm, I noticed that my recliner had been pushed out of alignment with my husband’s, because I must have sat in it while I was talking and it got shoved backwards. I burst into a storm of tears. And this awful feeling of grief … hit again, as it has over and over. I immediately shoved the recliner back into its correct established position! NO! I’m keeping it and my established “self” safe and right where it and I belong, next to “him!”
Because of the “closeness.” The “closeness” I am clinging to. Like a rock. Like a baby monkey clinging to its mother. With him, I WAS safe and warm. With him, I WAS supremely comfortable. We loved one another, we supported one another, we lived together and were happy being together. He had adjusted to me, I had adjusted to him, for over 20 years. We were one. I was his wife. He was my husband. I was HIS WIFE. That was who I was.
Now I walk alone. But his spirit is still here, I believe it. I don’t feel his spirit as often now, but I never ever want to “forget.” The closeness I had with him was spiritual. We were “we.” There was no “me.” There was “us.” He completed my old “me.” With his myriad abilities that were not the same as mine. I do not have his abilities. I am just this half of “us.” Now I have to … be the remaining mere half of “us,” and as they say about the whole being greater than the parts, I doubt I’m really even “half.” I’m just the surviving part that is left. Like MA said, I can’t wait to be with him again for eternity. Maybe God has a special place for us, the fortunate humans who had found this kind of love. Maybe that is God’s intention, or one of them. That we learn this love that lasts.