We have a lot of things going on in our house. Our business has outgrown it's assigned spot and is just kind of oozing deeper into the basement.
The ooze is causing a necessary cleaning up and purging of "stuff" in the next part of the basement. A dear friend (let's call him Aidan) came to help us today with the heavy lifting that we just can't do.
We (99% Aidan) moved shelving units, a huge work bench, too many cans of paint, miscellaneous furniture (like the first end tables Rich and I bought in 1970), remnants of a successful, but long retired candle business that occupied the area we now need for our current business (10 years after the close of the candle business), lamps, boxes of "who-knows-what" - just endless.
I was navigating that part of the basement (which looked more like an obstacle course than a basement) just kind of trying to get a feel for what's down there. I was drawn to a tired-looking cardboard box with something red poking out of the top. When I got to the box, there were 2 stuffed toys - both super heroes - still with tags on them. I took them out to see what was underneath, There were miscellaneous glasses - I found a Seagram's glass and a couple other glasses with writing on them - obviously not new.
My breath caught in my chest when I realized it was Greg's - probably a box of treasures from a garage sale - the toys... probably intended gifts for his two nephews, my two youngest grandchildren. I held the toys to my chest and sobbed quietly. Aidan was moving shelves, Michael was moving paint - and I was sitting with my back to them both - holding two stuffed super heroes and washing them with my tears.
It's always hard to see things that were personal to Greg, but when I run into them by surprise, it bends me to the ground. When I see remnants of the life he was living before he died... the pain grabs my heart and squeezes until I think I can't breathe.
Before I could gather myself, Michael was standing behind me. He can often tell when something isn't quite right. Maybe I was too quiet. I don't know. But there he was - to take the toys and the box and to ask me what I wanted to do with them.
"Later please, Michael. I can't do it now." I left the box and went over to where Aidan was working.
"How's it going, buddy?" I asked as cheerfully as I could manage.
"Great!" answered Aidan. "Do you want these chairs in the garage," Aidan asked.
"That would be great, Aidan. Thank you," I answered quietly. "I'll list them on Facebook and try to sell them. I'm done for now," I said. "I'm going upstairs. If anyone needs me... yell."
I went upstairs - closed the door to the den - and cried.
When I held the things from the box, I could see Greg - kneeling on the floor - looking at the things in the box. I could see his clothes - his shoes. I could see his face with that crooked smile he saved for things like garage sale treasures - and jokes on me. I could hear his voice and see his worn hands. It came all at once - the second I realized it was his box.
How can such small things cause such crushing pain?
I hate surprises.
The ooze is causing a necessary cleaning up and purging of "stuff" in the next part of the basement. A dear friend (let's call him Aidan) came to help us today with the heavy lifting that we just can't do.
We (99% Aidan) moved shelving units, a huge work bench, too many cans of paint, miscellaneous furniture (like the first end tables Rich and I bought in 1970), remnants of a successful, but long retired candle business that occupied the area we now need for our current business (10 years after the close of the candle business), lamps, boxes of "who-knows-what" - just endless.
I was navigating that part of the basement (which looked more like an obstacle course than a basement) just kind of trying to get a feel for what's down there. I was drawn to a tired-looking cardboard box with something red poking out of the top. When I got to the box, there were 2 stuffed toys - both super heroes - still with tags on them. I took them out to see what was underneath, There were miscellaneous glasses - I found a Seagram's glass and a couple other glasses with writing on them - obviously not new.
My breath caught in my chest when I realized it was Greg's - probably a box of treasures from a garage sale - the toys... probably intended gifts for his two nephews, my two youngest grandchildren. I held the toys to my chest and sobbed quietly. Aidan was moving shelves, Michael was moving paint - and I was sitting with my back to them both - holding two stuffed super heroes and washing them with my tears.
It's always hard to see things that were personal to Greg, but when I run into them by surprise, it bends me to the ground. When I see remnants of the life he was living before he died... the pain grabs my heart and squeezes until I think I can't breathe.
Before I could gather myself, Michael was standing behind me. He can often tell when something isn't quite right. Maybe I was too quiet. I don't know. But there he was - to take the toys and the box and to ask me what I wanted to do with them.
"Later please, Michael. I can't do it now." I left the box and went over to where Aidan was working.
"How's it going, buddy?" I asked as cheerfully as I could manage.
"Great!" answered Aidan. "Do you want these chairs in the garage," Aidan asked.
"That would be great, Aidan. Thank you," I answered quietly. "I'll list them on Facebook and try to sell them. I'm done for now," I said. "I'm going upstairs. If anyone needs me... yell."
I went upstairs - closed the door to the den - and cried.
When I held the things from the box, I could see Greg - kneeling on the floor - looking at the things in the box. I could see his clothes - his shoes. I could see his face with that crooked smile he saved for things like garage sale treasures - and jokes on me. I could hear his voice and see his worn hands. It came all at once - the second I realized it was his box.
How can such small things cause such crushing pain?
I hate surprises.
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