Two Lucky

There are five large cardboard boxes in my living room. Each of them holds some innocent things. Things impregnated with meaning; things who’ve suddenly lost one parent, and who must now rely on one other to tell their stories, how they came into our lives, and what they stood for.

For example, the toaster, for Rusty’s favorite breakfast: warm bread dipped in honey. A book, The Confederacy of Dunces, we took turns to read by the fire. A laugh he perfected to annoy me, recorded in so many e-mails, cards and slips of paper we left for each other: HEE HURR HUEEE HEEE. Even now when I hear it, it still makes me smile.

Rusty and I put this apartment together. Now, I alone take it apart. Who knew it took such strength to lift a piece of paper.

There is so much to pack I’m not really sure where to start. What do I keep? What do I throw away? And what I throw away, will I remember tomorrow? With every physical object I put into the waste basket, I feel I am slowly working up to my final act of leaving all this behind. I’m leaving New York. And as much as I want to take everything with me, I can’t. As much as I want to keep every single detail of my past, I can’t. The heart, as it turns out, isn’t too different from an apartment in this city; there just isn’t enough space to hold everything.

People say it’s the thought that counts. There’s no need to hold on to things as long as you have the memory of it, and what it means to you. But thoughts, like everything else, have a shelf-life, an expiration date. Some ideas and memories keep longer than others, but without commitment and revision, they can fade and be forgotten. 50 years later, will I still remember the smell of Rusty’s hair, or the feel of his skin on my fingers? If only we could have boxes for our senses, boxes we could temporarily put away, and come back to every time we feel lonely, or when we need a reminder of those deep feelings that come so rarely in our lives.

On the other hand, maybe it’s good to forget. If the heart is too full, there wouldn’t be enough room for a new future, new stories that come with fresh memories and adventures.

That’s how I feel right now. My present emotional life is a moving company’s nightmare (or cash cow); it’s cluttered and disorganized; it’s so full it verges on tipping over at any slight provocation of remembering. My feelings are in such a state of disarray I don’t know where they should go, and how I would go about collecting them into heaps to be donated and trashed. Let’s see - I’ll need one box for Anger, a big one for Grief, and ooh, maybe a small one for Denial. I’ll need a separate one for the recyclables, too.

Moving away is a first step towards moving on. It’s a physical end-point to all these months of emotional packing.

In reality, geography has very little to do with grieving. Grief is something you travel with; not what you can leave behind. But my move away from New York isn’t just about leaving my past; it’s also about entering my future. Going back to work, reuniting with my family and old friends - it’s an important phase in the process of reclaiming my sense of identity.

In the end, maybe I shouldn’t be too caught up in putting things away, or in order. The best things in life often come to us when we least expect it. Often enough, they don’t even stay very long. Our instinct to own and possess is merely a secondary counter-point to what things mean to us. Maybe learning to let go is the most important lesson to being thankful for the love that came into my life.

After all, the best things in life, don’t come in a box.

The clock tells me it’s half past one. I’ve been waiting for the minute hand to fall. Six months ago, he died as I sat next to him, unable to help. He was dying, and then he was dead. I was holding his hands when he died. Only his hands weren’t his anymore.

I tried to wake him. I shook his shoulders. I kissed his lips. As if by sheer force of touch I would bring him back. Just like in the movies, except this was no movie. I had been waiting for him to die. The doctor on the floor had already gone home. As instinctively as I had begun, I stopped. It’s happened. Rusty was no longer in this body. There was no coming back. This body was now suddenly, irrevocably empty.

Last night, I had a dream. He was on a raised platform, lying awake in an open coffin, pale, white, smiling. A narrow path led from the steps to some faraway place. The scene was filmed with a soft-focus lens. Or was it the weather? It felt neither warm, nor cold. It felt far away. I was on this path, which led to him. Many people were there with me, except they were all walking away from him, while I alone approached forward. By the time I reached the platform, I had begun to cry. I climbed up the few steps. I saw his face. Childishly, I wondered why the dead were allowed to smile. I didn’t understand why he was… happy. I wanted him to be angry.

Standing over him, I felt his hand reach up to hold my cheek. It was his hand, the same fingers that caught my breath. Like so, we stayed for what seemed like several minutes.

I became angry. I wanted him to stop smiling. You should be dead, I cry out. I wanted him dead. I pulled off his hand and looked away. I started to walk, but tripped on the steps and fell to the ground. The people who had been walking away turned and stood watching me. I buried my face in my hands, shamed. I couldn’t stand up. I didn’t know where to go. I was nowhere, in between worlds, confused as to which way was forward, or backward.

The force of my emotion woke me from the dream. I was still crying, but I wasn’t sad, or angry, like I was in the dream. My body felt full, tired. My left cheek was wet, as was my pillow. I fumbled in the dark for my cell phone. I wanted to see how long I had slept, but before the thought reached my hands, I fell asleep again.