At a Loss for Words
The at least once weekly trek to Taylor's house was made on Thursday. It's an hour and a half one way for me, and I am running late for I have had to make a trip to Wal-Mart for Sarah (I've got to have this stuff at school today!). Then I stop at the health department in hopes that the death certificate is finally ready. It takes 30 minutes to print 5 copies. So much for leaving the house at 7:30.
Our task today is to bring stuff from upstairs to the downstairs. Taylor's passion was books. All over the house there are hundreds- no, thousands- of books. Shelves cover the walls of the upstairs and are filled with books. There are boxes filled with books. There are paper grocery bags filled with books. There are books stacked everywhere. He has never thrown away or otherwise discarded a book. I know that he has read each and every one several times. The collection is varied, so one cannot decipher a particular interest. There is poetry, Louis L'Amour, college textbooks, classics, philosphy, comparative religion, AA 12 step books, travel, hunting/fishing/trapping. I suppose his favorite is Hemingway, for there are well-worn copies of everything he ever wrote. A close second may be Steinbeck or Carlos Castaneda. We have already sorted and culled the books downstairs. For myself, I have kept beautiful sets of leather bound collections that once belonged to my great-grandfather. These have been in my family since the turn of the century, and have that musty old book aroma. I have taken dozens to the used book store. I have retained many for the inevitable yard sale. Although I am ashamed to admit it, I have thrown dozens of books into the giant dumpster that sits in the front yard. He would be absolutley mortified that I have done this. But I am overwhelmed by the sheer volume of books.
I discover that he has also never thrown away a single letter or card he received. My mother finds the box that contains years of letters and decides that she will take them home and read them. There is a stack from me, most of which were written when I was in college and he was going across the country to Alaska, the place of his boyhood dreams. Many are addressed c/o general delivery in whatever town he was situated for a few weeks. My memory is fuzzy about the content of these letters, but I am sure that I do not want my mother to read them. I secretly confiscate my letters, although I know she will realize I have taken them when she gets home.
We make continuous trips up and down the stairs, out the front door to the dumpster. Box and after box, full of ten year old bank statements, power bills, and publications from the county extension office about cows, soil, weather, a variety of crops, insects, kudzu, and God knows what else, are unceremoniously thrown out. It is time for a short break and something cold to drink. My mother begins to cry. While this chore is physically demanding on me, it is taking its toll on her emotionally. She is convinced that along with each scrap of paper we throw away, we are throwing away a part of her firstborn child. If something happened to Sarah, she asks, would I throw away everything she ever had? Would I sell something Sarah felt was important to some stranger for twenty-five cents at a yard sale? She tells me I can't possibly understand what this is like for her, and I know she is right.
I now wonder if there is a way for me to do this alone, keep her away, for there is nothing I can say to her that will allow her to believe that it is ok that we are doing this, that this stuff is simply that - stuff. While it pains me to see her broken- hearted, it occurs to me that the notion of finishing this alone is selfish. I am on the verge of realizing that, for me, this is a journey of understanding and reconcilliation that requires solitude. Or maybe it's simply a matter of not wanting to share this. Most likely, however, is that we are on parallel paths, each searching for some assurance that we didn't fail him. Or absolution if we did.
Our task today is to bring stuff from upstairs to the downstairs. Taylor's passion was books. All over the house there are hundreds- no, thousands- of books. Shelves cover the walls of the upstairs and are filled with books. There are boxes filled with books. There are paper grocery bags filled with books. There are books stacked everywhere. He has never thrown away or otherwise discarded a book. I know that he has read each and every one several times. The collection is varied, so one cannot decipher a particular interest. There is poetry, Louis L'Amour, college textbooks, classics, philosphy, comparative religion, AA 12 step books, travel, hunting/fishing/trapping. I suppose his favorite is Hemingway, for there are well-worn copies of everything he ever wrote. A close second may be Steinbeck or Carlos Castaneda. We have already sorted and culled the books downstairs. For myself, I have kept beautiful sets of leather bound collections that once belonged to my great-grandfather. These have been in my family since the turn of the century, and have that musty old book aroma. I have taken dozens to the used book store. I have retained many for the inevitable yard sale. Although I am ashamed to admit it, I have thrown dozens of books into the giant dumpster that sits in the front yard. He would be absolutley mortified that I have done this. But I am overwhelmed by the sheer volume of books.
I discover that he has also never thrown away a single letter or card he received. My mother finds the box that contains years of letters and decides that she will take them home and read them. There is a stack from me, most of which were written when I was in college and he was going across the country to Alaska, the place of his boyhood dreams. Many are addressed c/o general delivery in whatever town he was situated for a few weeks. My memory is fuzzy about the content of these letters, but I am sure that I do not want my mother to read them. I secretly confiscate my letters, although I know she will realize I have taken them when she gets home.
We make continuous trips up and down the stairs, out the front door to the dumpster. Box and after box, full of ten year old bank statements, power bills, and publications from the county extension office about cows, soil, weather, a variety of crops, insects, kudzu, and God knows what else, are unceremoniously thrown out. It is time for a short break and something cold to drink. My mother begins to cry. While this chore is physically demanding on me, it is taking its toll on her emotionally. She is convinced that along with each scrap of paper we throw away, we are throwing away a part of her firstborn child. If something happened to Sarah, she asks, would I throw away everything she ever had? Would I sell something Sarah felt was important to some stranger for twenty-five cents at a yard sale? She tells me I can't possibly understand what this is like for her, and I know she is right.
I now wonder if there is a way for me to do this alone, keep her away, for there is nothing I can say to her that will allow her to believe that it is ok that we are doing this, that this stuff is simply that - stuff. While it pains me to see her broken- hearted, it occurs to me that the notion of finishing this alone is selfish. I am on the verge of realizing that, for me, this is a journey of understanding and reconcilliation that requires solitude. Or maybe it's simply a matter of not wanting to share this. Most likely, however, is that we are on parallel paths, each searching for some assurance that we didn't fail him. Or absolution if we did.
posted by Ellie at 5:04 AM
2 Comments:
And I think you are the one that taught me there is no such thing as failure. We are all just who we are on these journeys, right?
i would see this in your mother's eyes, and i simply cannot imaging throwing in the trash something my son cherished. what a terrible thing for you two to have to do. i have tears in my eyes and chills.... bee
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