By Karin Hedetniemi
I admit I was a packrat. Sentimental about our sweet life, evident in every inch of light and space. Contents glowing with stories, meaning, luminosity. Alive in their own way. But the moment you died, I was teleported — inserted into a strange replica world, assigned without my consent. I lost my relationship to tangible things. Without your life force around them, your fingerprints moving them — a teaspoon here, a coffee cup there — the objects of our shared life became frozen. Silent. Their molecules stopped vibrating.
I started giving everything away. Your furniture, books, clothes, artwork, camping gear — to charity. Your cherished pipe, the snowshoes you made by hand, the jacket you wore to Paris — to your oldest friends. Our garden tools, the pear tree I planted for you, the fence you built for me, our initials carved in cement — to the person who bought our house. I gave your ashes to the sea. My pain to the moon. Our old life, back to the stars.
What remains now are intangible, permanent imprints — love, memories, a new lens to view this world — and a small assortment of artifacts that somehow followed me here. Objects without value, except within the rooms of my heart. Your bronzed baby shoe, reminding me to step forward in my own newborn life. A pair of your socks — the left foot comfort, the right foot courage. Your mother’s vintage mixing bowls, inspiring me to cook again. This poem you wrote for me: love is Sunday breakfast, meteorites, waiting at arrivals. These things never left me. And your birding book, penned with the date we first spotted the Bewick’s Wren in our yard. Remember? We named him Buzzy.