The double wide Nebo sleeping bag cover filled with treasures from our cabin in Mazama sat on a shelf over the car for years. I had our good friend Kyle Larson go to the cabin when it sold in 2011 and retrieve some items, shipping them to Colorado. A wool blanket poked out as a soft, gentle reminder that it was ready spring into action and that beneath it, were things from my past and a life so differently lived.
The thing with garages... they can hold a lot of things that you don't want to face immediately. It's easier to put something in the garage and let it collect dust verses deal with it. Some objects in the garage have sat since Ben and I moved into this house, over 8 years ago. They were hastily moved from Colorado Springs (two houses there, one on Pikes Peak, the other on Lovers Lane) and all trucked over via U-Haul from Seattle.
Back when I moved from the Pacific Northwest in 2011, I packed all of my memories and material goods quickly into boxes. My grief of losing Ryan was interspersed between books, pots and pans, sweaters and photographs, CDs and journals. In a way, I was running from the house he and I shared, wanting to start my life without the daily reminders of his absence. So I compartmentalized them into digestible chunks. Over the years, you get used to those things blending into daily life. They start to fade into the background. It is after all, just stuff.
Garage clean out day finally came. Imagine my surprise when I took down the Nebo bag, finally inspecting the contents in order to give those items a new purpose, and taken aback by discovery of the deep red hue of Ryan's jacket. A treasure, hidden from view, and nearly forgotten. I lifted it to my nose, curious if it would still smell like him. Fourteen plus years is a long time for a scent to linger and the scent had gone. So I checked the pockets, like I did the last time I saw the jacket. No lint build up - just empty pockets whose space used to warm Ryan's small and strong hands.
Grief is hard to describe to someone who hasn't experienced it. With time, it doesn't really go away. It just grows dusty and sits while life spins madly on. Every now and then you'll uncover something that whisks you back. A scent, a song, a photograph, a saying. And that dust gets wiped away, reminding you that underneath lies that sense of loss.
I thought about donating Ryan's jacket. But on second thought, I'm not ready yet. Instead, I'm going to put some things in the pockets that are a direct reminder of Ryan. The last remaining baby jar of his ashes, a hockey puck, a saved loved letter, wedding ring and Juice Mama Zippo.
Uh oh, I think I just got some dust in my eyes.
