#120: Sometimes letting go sneaks up on you.
How time transforms the heaviest grief.
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“Everything okay, Sue?”
It was a chilly October spring day in the Southern Hemisphere, waaaaay back in 2018.
Patches of snow dotted the pampas. The wind sliced through my jacket. I had paused mid-stride, staring at my gloved hands like I'd never seen them before.
Nico, my Chilean, mind-reading guide, had been pointing out the llama-like guanacas and the tortured sideways trees. That morning I’d tried his yerba mate as we drove through the Patagonian landscape in his Toyota Hilux. We’d parked on a ridge and tramped down a hill to see a long-abandoned ranch when he noticed me freeze.
“These are Mike’s gloves,” I mumbled, more to myself than to Nico. But after several days together and many stories shared, he understood right away. He drifted just far enough away to give me space while keeping me in sight.
This trip was a 50th birthday present to myself. It had been just shy of two years since Mike’s death, and, well… he should have been there. But the only tangible manifestation of him were his slightly-too-large gloves warming my freezing hands. A piece of him I could still touch. Because holding onto his things felt like holding onto him.
We do this, don't we? Transform ordinary things into sacred vessels after someone dies.
Not just the obvious keepsakes — the family photos, the precious gifts. I'm talking about the random bits of life that become holy simply because they were touched by someone we loved. Like Mike's gloves.
I could have put those gloves in a box for safekeeping. I did that with many other of Mike’s things. Carting those boxes from house to house. Storing them somewhere safe. Eyeballing them on occasion to make sure they were where I’d left them.
Those boxes sit like dormant volcanoes now, eight years later. If I were to open them, memories and emotions would erupt out: Mike in that sky blue half-zip when we went to see Hamilton in NYC, beaming in his pinstriped suit at Connor's 6th grade graduation, turning the small jade lion in his hands after his semester in South Africa. The boxes have become boobytraps, crystallizing with pain over the silent, dark years.
But not the gloves. They’ve traveled around the world with me. Beaver Creek, Sedona, Greenland, Colgate, Patagonia. And a thousand hikes in Great Falls Park. Over time, they’ve been drained of their totem status. They’ve become part of me as much as they were part of Mike.
And maybe that’s because Mike has become part of me, too. I carry him with me everywhere I go. He’s no longer a separate being. He’s weightless.
It’s been a bitter cold winter in Virginia.
We’ve dealt with more snow than the last several winters combined. So the gloves have gotten a workout.
And finally, the inevitable happened. When I went to gather my hat, scarf, coat, and boots from the car, only one glove rested on the passenger seat.
I searched under the seats, in the garage, all around the mudroom to no avail. Finally, I had to pause and ask myself, “ok, how do I feel about this?”
Surprisingly, the answer was. “I’m sad, but ok.”
Only a few years back, this would have been a catastrophe that sent me into an ugly cry. But Mike is not in those gloves. Mike is in me. Forever.
And right when I felt the sadness lifting, I looked down at my feet.
There the glove was, stuck under the gas pedal.
With warm hands,
Yes. I understand. The 17th was diagnosis day. I still have to clean out the nightstand on his side of the bed. Why can’t I touch it? Because it might explode. In there are clay picture frames my kids’ chubby hands made for him. A music box with our wedding invitation lacquered to the top, hiding miscellaneous coins from his travels. His reading glasses. Why are they still there? Why can’t I make myself move them? I could use the space for my pajamas.
Glad u found it. Like Pooh says about Christopher Robin, “even when we’re apart, we’re together!”