Finality

It starts with a physical illness. Before numbness gives way to shoulder heaving sobs, your body unconsciously holds all the stress and grief until it manifests in physical symptoms. This summer, it was shingles. Then when we heard again that the kids would be leaving, I went in to get a Covid test. Nothing was wrong with me, just heartache presenting with Covid symptoms.

Today I packed up boxes and stacked them in my living room. I erected a tower of memories just waiting by the door to be moved out of my home. From baby clothes to toys from every holiday, I held items I’m not ready to part with and know I won’t see again.

How do you transfer years of memories when a child leaves? They don’t make photo albums or scrapbooks big enough to house every significant moment we’ve had. Before taping everything up, I took one last look at those first pair of shoes, that outfit she wore when she took her first steps, the rabbit I tried to sew for Easter one year. Nothing in these boxes would be of particular significance to anyone else. Piece by piece, it may get lost over the years, and the kids will forget. Am I the gatekeeper of access to someone else’s childhood? Did I box up hundreds of memories that died with me today?

I scanned the stack of boxes to the front door, and my thoughts shifted from past memories to present worries. I don’t know what life will be like when I’m no longer their mom. At some point, will I stop wondering what they’re doing or worrying that all their little idiosyncrasies will be remembered (like how one loves ketchup and the other doesn’t, or how they’ll be out like a light if they have a book to read in bed)? Will it become normal to live life without them? What happens if I run into them at the grocery store or spot them at the beach? Will it be upsetting to be ambushed by their old family in public?

I don’t have the answers on moving forward. Clearly. One day at a time.