Written Now for Tomorrow

The following is written for...tomorrow. For whomever. My family. My caregiver. Maybe my wife. I'm writing it today so I won't have to write it later.

Please note that I'm not going to hurt myself or die tomorrow or anything like that. It's just...read on and you'll understand.



To whomever finds this, understand that you have my deepest sympathies. You have the most unenviable task of going through my personal effects, my clothing, my memories...everything that made me, well, me.

By now I've have passed away, left the boundaries of this mortal world and my soul has begun it's journey to the final destination...or maybe it's first steps into a better world. It's not for me to say while I write this because, like you, I am among the living.

Neither weep nor fret for me. I've got it easy. It's you, gentle reader, who has the hard part. You're still alive and possibly smarting from my loss. Or maybe not. I don't know who'll find this missive as I write this at the tender age of 40.

See, I'm writing this today because you are doing what I have already done, and that's gone through the personal belongings of someone else.

I've spent part of this day going through my mother's belongings. Even though, as I type this, she still lives, she's not going to need these things again. She's been in a nursing home nearly two years, and when she's not there, she's in the hospital, getting weaker and weaker with each visit.

Even with her strength, I doubt she'll have too much left in her, so rather than wait, I'm at least going through her things, seeing what she has, what I should donate, what I should give, and what I should merely toss.

The pain I feel now is likely the same pain you're feeling, and for that, I am so, so very sorry. It is not easy, this process, of going through the things that belonged to someone we knew, someone we loved, and deciding...what do I do with it all?

They've no use for it where they're going. They don't need the scrapbook photos of Grace Kelly or the French magazine brought back to them as a souvenir years ago, or clothing so old and used that the buttons are held on with safety pins. (I cannot help but wonder if you know what half those words mean, reading this whenever you do. Of course, the point is moot. Those ideas are likely as dead as I am, now.)

I wonder if you'll feel the same things as I have, going through her clothes. I knew full well the pockets would be full of handkerchiefs...she always had one in the pocket of her skirts.

I wonder if you'll have the same pain when you try to decide what to do with old photos, or look at marvel at newspapers clippings, some older than you, or will you just shrug your shoulders and toss them into the garbage (or the laser recycler).

I wonder if you'll feel the same tears well up in the corner of your eyes as you find some memento, some little thing, that you gave me as I've found such things that I gave her years ago.

Little memories. Moments from a life. What meaning do they serve? They're just things, aren't they?

Or are these keepsakes, things that provoke an almost Pavlovian response in us, triggers that we cannot help but obey?

If you're feeling half the pain I feel this day, whomever you are, then know that I wish I could give you the hug I so badly need right now.

Unless you're just a stranger, someone with no ties to any of my shit, at which I say sell what you can and trash the rest.