Packing clothes, unpacking memories

Never is the brevity of life more palpable than when we are tasked with the job of packing up a loved one’s belongings.

I started tackling the job last spring, about six months after Paul died. I remember thinking it would be difficult, that I might be asking for more grief. But it just felt like an everyday household chore – something that needed to be done.

I began with his clothing, gathering up his t-shirts, sweaters, pajamas, shorts, jeans, casual pants, and socks.

Working methodically – folding and stacking, folding and stacking – I let my mind wander. Was it too soon to remove his things from view? Would I regret this impulsive move to clear the space his clothes had filled for decades?

As the stacks of clothing grew, so did a feeling of annoyance, even anger. I was focused on all the living Paul had done in those clothes, all the meaningful moments and purposeful actions that defined his life, and to what end? All that seemed left of a life well-lived was a pile of clothes destined for the thrift shop. Like wise old Solomon, I thought, “Meaningless, meaningless, all is meaningless.”

Disgusted, I stuffed the piles of clothing into ten plastic garbage bags and hauled them upstairs and into the garage, waiting for the inevitable call from Purple Heart for donations.

But when the call came some months later, I said I had nothing to give.

In the waiting, I realized that tangled up in all those bags of Paul’s clothing were emotions I had steered clear of earlier, emotions that pointed to the significance – not futility – of his life. It was because of the great impact he had on my life that I’ve felt such a great sense of loss, and the reason it was easier to be angry, rather than sad, as I wrestled with that reality.

I wasn’t ready to let those bags go. Giving them away meant letting more of Paul go , and I just couldn’t do that then.

Reluctantly, I gave them up last fall.

The second purge

A couple of weeks ago, I cleaned out the cedar closet packed with bedding, luggage, storage bins, old photos and more of Paul’s clothing.

This collection was his dress clothes, the ones he wore to work and church or on special occasions.

There was the navy suit he wore with my favorite blue and white striped shirt. The black suit he wore with a crisp white shirt to officiate at weddings and funerals, and the khaki, corduroy blazer that he wore with navy Dockers, which gave him the look of an English professor – an irresistible look to me.

Every pair of trousers that I touched and each shirt I folded stirred up memories of him wearing the clothes.

My thoughts ran to Sunday mornings. He would shower and dress downstairs and then come upstairs. I’d be standing in front of the mirror, putting on makeup, and he’d walk past me, into the bedroom, to put on his watch and ring and to spray his neck and chest with cologne.

Then he’d walk back to face me and check his gig line – a habit learned in the army of making sure the imaginary line from shirt button to belt buckle to pants zipper was straight. He’d raise his head to make eye contact with me and then pause for a second to see if I approved.

Later, when we were sitting together at church, the scent of that cologne on him would reel me in. I’d snuggle up next to him and he’d put his arm around me. I swear that cologne was an aphrodisiac!

Summoning his presence

I wanted to feel that rush again.

I started smelling his shirts, hoping to get a whiff of him, but I gave up after a dozen or so. None of them still carried his scent. If anything, they smelled like cedar and laundry detergent.

Disappointed, and with an increasing desire to be physically close to him again, I focused on my memories – where he still lives, where he still smells so good.

I finished with eight bags stuffed with 30 shirts, two dress suits, 10 sport coats, 39 pairs of pants, two winter coats and a belt. What I didn’t stuff in those bags were my emotions.

I felt sad, maybe lonely, yet ok.

It’s true that timing is everything when it comes to letting go of a lost loved one’s belongings. I don’t plan on turning the last of his clothes over to Purple Heart any time soon. I’m kind of holding out hope of finding someone who will receive them as if they were a vital organ donation – a piece of Paul giving new life to someone in need.

Maybe that’s when I’ll let him go.

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How about you? Have you had to pack up your loved one’s belongings? How long did you wait before doing it? What did you feel? Did you give them to people you knew or donate them to a thrift shop? What helped you get through the process? I’d love to know.