When death first knocked on our doors unannounced and unwelcomed, we were in brutal shock. Death makes you realize you’ve never been in control. And when it comes, there’s absolutely nothing you can do to stop it. It comes as it pleases and leaves behind a pile of destruction, but it doesn’t seem to care so much about that either.
When you lose a loved one, you want to grab and hold on to anything and everything of theirs. It’s like if you keep these things, you are keeping them close too. It’s a weird kind of reminder that they will always be here. And sometimes people don’t understand this kind of obsession. They even make insensitive statements about it.
When you lose a loved one, letting go is easier said than done. I don’t think we ever let go. We only learn to live with that empty hole somehow. But it never goes away. Nothing can ever fill that gap. The only thing time does is that it reduces the size of that hole.
And it’s weird the things we hold on to dearly after the death of our loved ones. In addition to the mental memories that we cherish, we also cherish some physical memories. And, never ask a grieving person to dispose of these items. They are holding on to them not for you, but for them and for their loved ones. When they are ready, they will decide to release them or do whatever they deem fit for them.
And being ready is different for everyone. For some, they would rather not keep anything from their loved ones because that physical reminder is more painful than the death itself. And they can’t deal with the turmoil of double tragedy. And so, they give away everything that could remind them of their loved ones. For this group, they would rather keep the mental memories alone.
For others, they would rather keep everything about their loved ones. They hold on tightly to their clothes, photos, books, and tools. Others treasure things others would consider weird or insignificant, like a piece of their handwriting. It’s an indescribable kind of intimacy. I belong to this group.
These items are known as death keeps, or death memorabilia if you like. Like the name suggests, its memorabilia from our departed loved ones. It’s funny how these items become treasure when they are gone.
When my father died, I kept his photos and pieces of his handwriting. That man had a good handwriting, unlike me. Thank God for smartphones and electric devices that hides our poor handwriting. When I miss my dad or when those moments of grief overwhelm me and I cry a river, I look at his photos and that handwriting of his. This ritual will take me down the mental memories lane and I’ll cry some more and laugh in between. This ritual tends to wash over the grief because it leaves me sad, happy and relieved, all at the same time.
The case was different with my brother. For him, at first, I wanted to grab everything. Keeping everything meant he wasn’t dead yet, it meant he was still “alive” somewhere. It meant he was coming back. We did have to give away his clothes later on because keeping them was doing us more harm than good. Going through his clothes was heart wrenching. It was like going through his death the second time.
The items I have kept from my brother are weird. Sometimes I look at them and I laugh at myself and at him.
A fork. What’s a fork got to do with it? Why would a fork matter?
Believe me, this particular fork matters. In our house, we rarely used forks. But my brother used them a lot. He ate his meals with a fork. When he died, those forks reminded us of him. I kept one or two for myself because now, they seem very important to me.
And we keep these stuff as reminders not to forget our loved ones. Because sometimes, we worry that their mental memories will fade away and we will forget them. And if we forget them, it will feel like a betrayal. So, in the event that our brain fails us and these memories fade, we would have a backup in the form of these items. Grief does crazy things to you.
At the core of these things, there’s a longing. A longing for understanding, for meaning, and for regaining what we’ve lost. A longing for a touch, smell or voice, a yearning for wholeness, for some sort of balance. When Toby Mac lost his son, he said, “I don’t know if I’ll ever laugh as deeply.” I felt that. For me it’s connection. After losing my dad and brother, I don’t know if I’ll ever connect as deeply again.
Somebody once said that grief is like surfing. Sometimes, you’re steady and you ride safely through the waves. Other times, the surf comes crushing on you, pushing you down underwater that it feels like you’re drowning. Grief is mannerless but it’s also a reminder that we loved.
To my dad and brother, you’ll always be treasured. You’ll always be loved.
