What We Leave Behind
Legacy is not leaving something for people, it’s leaving something in people. ~Peter Strople
Who would've thought that a mundane spreadsheet I created for my mom would get me thinking about death and what remains when we're gone?
Certainly not me; however, that's precisely what happened.
But first, I have to go back to 1983. After a brief but excruciating battle with lung cancer, my father-in-law passed away at 48. I was only 22 then and didn't have much experience with death. We had just returned from the hospital grief-stricken that a strapping, six-foot-five-inch man, who "hadn't been sick a day in his life," was gone.
I remember my mother-in-law asking me to get a sweater from her bedroom. When I stepped through the doorway, something caught my eye. It was his work boots. They sat in the corner of the room, their dark color contrasting against the room's blue and cream pastels.
Then the realization struck me; these boots stood for all that was left of the man we knew. They represented his legacy and the core of who he was. These well-worn, beaten Wolverines spoke to all he accomplished over the years, including a successful construction company.
Sure, there were many other possessions: clothing, toiletries, sporting goods, tools, books, paperwork, memorabilia, and so much more. Years later, we still found his belongings tucked away in boxes and drawers.
It was then that I understood how death is a great equalizer. It shows no bias or favoritism. Death doesn't care who you are or what you've acquired. It takes our most valued possession and leaves the rest behind.
As a young adult, I'd always felt that death was too far away to worry about. However, his unexpected illness and departure enlightened me. A middle-aged man stricken with disease and gone within a few months.
With the passing decades, I've watched the gap between my youth and old age slowly shrink, and I'm aware of the precariousness and uncertainty of life now more than ever.
My mom had a list of phone numbers written on white notebook paper. The front was covered, and it continued onto the backside. There were notations in the margins, old numbers crossed out, new ones written in, some unidentifiable smudges, and a faint coffee (?) ring near the bottom.
It consisted of family, friends, neighbors, favorite restaurants, doctors, and the skilled nursing facility that became my Dad's last home. I'm unsure how long she'd had it, but it had seen better days.
I typed it all into a spreadsheet, sorted it alphabetically, and made it easier for her to read with a larger font. I crossed each name and number off the paper as I entered them.
Glancing down the list, I noticed how her handwriting changed. The script slowly became shaky over time and reminded me of the notes my grandma used to write.
Suddenly, that tattered paper took on new significance. I stopped crossing out the names so I could salvage something that was uniquely hers. Instead, I started putting a checkmark next to them.
The entries themselves told a warm and familiar story: Patty's Clippers & Cuts, Dr. Jill, Plaza Pizza, Donato's grocery delivery (Tues. & Thurs.), and the Vets Fish Fry, among others. Each name and number signified a small slice of my parent's lives.
Then there are the intangible things that can only be felt. Love, affection, and the faint sound of laughter if we close our eyes and concentrate. The taste of a favorite holiday dish Mom always prepared or the fragrance of my Dad's cologne.
It's funny what we leave behind. There's a wealth of physical items that are easily identifiable and some that baffle the survivors. Photos of unidentifiable people, unknown objects, or notes in yearbooks describing stories we're not privy to (so many details of a person’s daily existence that we never really know.)
They only tell a small part of a much larger story. Most are packed up for charity. However, some more personal items are kept for their connection to our loved ones, like a handwritten list that can never be duplicated or a voicemail that brings our loved one back momentarily.
What we leave behind represents memories of who we were and how we lived. They signal to our family and friends what was important to us during our lifetimes: people, pets, careers, hobbies, etc. It offers them something to remember us by after we’re gone.
I made a promise to remember this when clearing out the clutter that gathers over time. After all, one man’s trash is another man’s treasure.
WHAT DO YOU THINK?
“What is the most meaningful object you received from a loved one who passed away?”
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What a beautiful post.
I kept the diary from Mum's last year - it was, predictably, filled with medical appointments and not written in her hand as she had macular degeneration There's also a list of people and numbers written large so that she could see, of her remaining friends and helpers. All this is a tangible memory for me of that last final year and it's precious.
There is also her handwritten, leather covered recipe book which on every page is a trip down the memory lane of Mum's life and indirectly mine. That has pride of place on a wooden trivet on the kitchen bench.
Beautiful, Ms. W. ♥️