A House, a Box, a Handful of Tears

She motioned me towards what we always called Helen's room, and there she pointed at a large cardboard box on a bed. "You're in charge of taking care of that. There are more in the bottom cabinet in the den." She walked away just as I felt an emotional punch to the gut. Wow. That was unexpected. I thought I had moved past the gut punches. I was wrong. Again.

I took the box to the den and set it on the floor in front of the cabinet, and pulled out the rest of them. I knew I did not want them all and certainly could not keep them all. But the idea of "taking care of that" was an emotional rip. They represented my, our, daddy. They were symbols of who he was and how he was and of what he valued.

The whole house was that way for a couple of months after Mom passed, last October. I went by every day to pick up the newspapers, the mail, to check on things. I always walked through the house and I always cried. Then one day, there were no tears. Proud of myself, I thought, I have rounded a corner, I have healed, I have mourned out.

On a later day, I glanced at the doorway going into the den. The marks caught my attention. You know, those height marks: pencil dashes, dates, and names, that recorded the growth of our family. I saw myself measured and compared to dad: I saw my sisters, brother Quinton and his children. For every mark a dozen memories sprang up like spring flowers tearing themselves through the warming soil of March. The tears returned.

Over these past few months, the house has slowly emptied or is emptying. A bed here, a dresser there, a few pots and pans, dishes, books, what-nots, pictures, appliances. After not being inside for a couple of months, my wife broke down when we went in last week. She just lost it and cried on my shoulder.

The thing about cleaning your parents' house out is the stuff goes but the memories remain. Every entrance into 422 West Harding is a stroll through the past, a tour of an almost idyllic childhood, to more memories than can be encountered in a single hour, a single day and remain unmoved. I guess that's what made the box so difficult.

When Dad passed in November of 2013, I thought, all I want is a couple of his training diaries. My brother and I split those up and they now are among my most prized possessions. I knew about the contents of the box, but they never seemed to have any force on me until I was told I had to "take care" of them.

Dad was a runner. He was pretty good and his trophies number in the dozens. They filled the box and the floor in front of me. I don't want them, not all of them, but I will keep a few. The idea of tossing the whole collection, however, is more than I can bear. I can't. I just can't. 

So now they sit in a big box in the back of Mom's Blazer; later they will grace my study at 333 West Monroe. I will try my best to find homes for as many of them as I can. I'll ask my children, co-workers, and I might even post on Facebook:

                              Running trophies. Free to good home.

Eventually they will all be gone. That is when I know I am whole again. 

Wait. I've thought that before and was wrong. 

Several times. 

Maybe that's just how life is. We are always hurting and healing and adjusting to change. With God's help, it's not so bad. There can even be joy in those tears. 

Sometimes.