I don’t know how to properly grieve. Perhaps nobody does. Fortunately, I haven’t had many reasons to grieve in my 40 years of life. I have parents who are healthy and active. Most of my grandparents lived long, fulfilling lives. I even knew one set of my great-grandparents. I have been incredibly lucky with the time I have had with loved ones.
My first experience with grief was the death of my mamaw, who died when I was around 8 years old. At the funeral, I assumed it was all a big prank and she was going to sit up and tell me she was cured of cancer and we would all celebrate. Needless to say, that didn't happen. I was devastated. Kids are super resilient though, and I bounced back quickly. Looking back, I remember feeling extremely protective of things that reminded me of her; a necklace she got for me in Hawaii (pictured below), a doll she had made, wooden trinkets she had painted, dresses she had square-danced in. I still have some of these items to this day.
Of course I am sad whenever someone passes on, but I try to remind myself that it is a necessary part of life. I’m not outwardly emotional (a statement my therapist would totally agree with), but I often wrestle internally with how I should be grieving. My incredibly unhealthy reaction is to shove all emotions down as far as I can and pretend it’s all ok and nothing bothers me. However, as I’ve grown older I realize that for me, death is less about losing someone and more about not losing them. I’ve done this subconciously by holding onto the relics that bring them back to me. It’s more than simply owning something they owned, because not everything holds a part of their soul. It’s also different for everyone who is grieving, because “one man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” as the old saying goes.
This was true in the months after my other mamaw died. I was 28 years old and living hundreds of miles away from home. When my parents went through her house and all the things that were left behind, I spoke up about a particular kitchen storage bin that I wanted (pictured below). My mom was shocked and had almost thrown it away (not even considered donation worthy!), because she couldn’t imagine anyone wanting it.
To me, it was a constant fixture in the home in which I had spent much of my childhood. I now have it in my kitchen, and I see it everyday. It’s not that I have any specific memories of the “taters” bin, but I do have an emotional, or maybe even metaphysical, reaction to it. It’s usually minor, whatever feeling it is, but it’s there. This bin is much more than just a “thing” my mamaw owned. It was a part of the background scenery on my childhood stage, and now it is a way for me to not lose my mamaw, my papaw, their house, as well as that part of my life, all while keeping my potatoes and onions fresh. Perhaps one day my kids, or even their kids, will want to keep this in their homes, but if not that’s ok. I’m fine if it gets tossed into the nearest dumpster the moment I’m gone. But until that day comes, it will always have a place in my home.
I possess many relics from my past, as well as heirlooms from ancestors who passed on before I was ever even thought of. It is my way of keeping a part of them alive and knowing that I will never lose them. I hope to share these relics and why they are important to me in future posts as yet another way of ensuring they are never forgotten.
Having recently endured the most grievous loss I could imagine, I had a hard time reading this and not tearing up with memories. You can read what happened on my page--I don't feel it's proper to share it here.