Possessions as stories

I think about death a lot now. Sandy's death, of course, but also my own. My life is all that keeps our house our home. My life is what gives most of our belongings their meaning. When I die, some of these things — some books, dishes, memorabilia, clothing — will go to our friends and family. But most of it will go . . . where?

In The Inevitable, the compilation of essays on death and dying, Lance Olsen wrote:

My mother. . . dying of cancer. . . inventorying the clutter that took her nearly seventy-four years to quilt around herself, noting out of the blue, almost casually, to no one in particular: All these things will forget their stories the moment I’m gone.

Most of the time, I am simply home, amidst the artifacts of our lives. Neither Sandy nor I enjoyed shopping, so there's little in this house that doesn't have some purpose — or that didn't have some purpose at one time. I'm a hoarder, but not a gatherer. That is, I don't accumulate things for the purpose of having them, but once they're here, I tend to keep them. That's come in handy when we've needed to jury-rig repairs, when rummaging through the storage room turns up the perfect cord or bit of metal or plastic container.

A year ago tonight, we had dinner with Cassandra and Steve
in California. They took the last pictures that were ever taken
of us together. Sandy wore that hoodie almost every day the
last several months of her life. I've worn it almost every day
since she died, but I still think it's her when I see it in the mirror.

I give things away when I'm sure others can make use of them. It's hard to decide to part with them, but once they're gone, I'm fine. I try to remember that okayness when my perspective shifts and I see everything around me as it might look to those tasked with settling my estate. The books whose presence comfort me seem overwhelming then — what a chore to sort through them and send important books to specific people and others to a used bookstore! The same with CDs, DVDs, everything in the kitchen. And all my writing! More than a hundred notebooks of journal entries, with some nuggets of wisdom nestled among the whining and repetition. Do I ask someone to read them, or should they just be destroyed, unread?

Handling Sandy's estate was easier, because so many of our possessions were never going to go anywhere; they stay at home. Because I was privy to so many aspects of her life, so much information about who was important to her and why, I found it less daunting to recognize items of importance and set them aside for individuals. I know I've missed some things and some people. But I've been careful about what's gone to Goodwill; most things remain here so that when I realize where they should go, they can. We were talking about such things during the week we were here at home. Sandy was concerned about making a list of things to give to people, but she was too tired to do it. I told her if we didn't get it all written down, I'd take care of it. And she said, "But how will you know?"

What neither she nor I knew was that she'd be around to guide me in the process. But I still have doubts, still fumble. And our lives were intertwined for more than a decade. I can't be certain that I'll be able to communicate with people after I'm gone, and though I'm close to the ones who will be doing the sorting, they can't know the story behind each possession. So how much do I document, and how much do I let it go and assume that people who need certain things will come forward and claim them, and that the other things will find their way into new lives, whether intact or through recycling?

After the Nisqually quake, the Oregonian ran a story advising people to use bungee cords to keep their books on their shelves. That makes sense if you know an earthquake is imminent, but an earthquake is not a hurricane — with our current technology, we can't see it coming. Most people don't find bungee cords stretched across their bookcases attractive, though Oregonians are probably more open to it than most.

If I knew my death was coming in the next year, I'd probably at least put little colored stickers on things, marking the varying levels of importance. I'd also start giving things away myself, and selling books and CDs that I don't expect to need in the next year. Basically, I'd try to make things easier for my executor. But I don't know when I'm going to die, and so I don't know how far to go with these efforts.

I know I still need to rewrite my legal documents, though that will be difficult because it's yet another admission that Sandy isn't coming back to take care of things for me. And I'm trying to declutter, identifying the things that no longer have purpose or meaning and sending them off to other homes. And I want to make a list of the things that were Sandy's that I've kept, that need to go to her closest friends and family members when I die. But how much more of my life should I give to preparing for the time after I'm gone? I could easily live another 50 years.

Ultimately, how many of the stories that are attached to these possessions need to survive after I go?

Sometimes I'm still startled to remember that Sandy literally took nothing with her. When she died, she was wearing homemade socks, a pump for pain medication, and a bed sheet. I brought the socks home; the pump was discarded; the bed sheet was washed. She took no possessions, and she needed none (though she's been borrowing things; I'm still waiting for those state quarters to reappear). The possessions were left behind for those who needed the comfort they offered. I guess at some level I have to trust that my possessions will serve the same purpose, and that the people tasked with their disposal will find the right places for them. But it's strange to shift back and forth between seeing our home, filled with the stuff of us, and a house filled with just stuff.