When someone dies, we want to keep things the way they are. Parents often leave their child’s room untouched for months, and sometimes, years. Wives won’t give away their husband’s clothing, because it carries his scent. I have keepsakes from my dad I won’t part with, even though he’s been gone over four years.
I have dozens of mementos from Bobby. Cards and crafts from elementary school. I have his Superman pajamas with ragged holes in the knees. His favorite tee shirt is in my cedar chest. There’s a box full of report cards, yearbooks, essays. I often ask myself how long I’ll keep all of his things. Until I die?
Mike and I debated for almost a year before deciding to sell Bobby’s car, The Bobster. It’s a classic Ford Galaxie. It’s a part of Bobby. He sat in the seat. His hands touched the steering wheel. His handwriting is in the owner’s manual. How could we part with it?
Shouldn’t we keep such a big part of Bobby’s life? Wouldn’t he want us to drive it, to remember him every time we got into it? Would selling it diminish his life, his memory?
I hear Bobby’s voice as clear as if he were alive: It’s just a car, Mama.
#grief #sorrow #loss #death