Letting go

In the winter right after my husband passed away, I gave most of his clothes and shoes to a local shelter. Every closet in my house was emptied of his things. Every drawer cleared of his belongings, with the exception of that damn coat in the garage (https://widowspeak.blog/2024/08/03/cover-me/). The guilt of giving away his things was excruciating. I remember writing about how it felt like I was erasing him.

But it was bitterly cold that year and his clothes weren’t doing any good hanging in our closet. It made sense to give them to men in our community who needed them. As I bagged things up, I found myself creating a pile of shirts and hoodies he wore all the time. His scent still lingered on them. I just couldn’t bear to part with them, so I boxed them up and put them away, sure I would know what to do with them someday.

This past weekend “someday” came. A friend posted about her sister losing everything in a house fire. The family’s immediate need was clothing, and the man of the house just happened to be Joe’s size. I remembered that box I’d put away over two years ago, so I contacted my friend and we made plans for her to pick everything up last night.

As I pulled the box down from the top shelf in my closet, the bottom of it fell open and its contents rained down on top of me. As if Joe himself was orchestrating the scene, his kilt landed at my feet. My heart jumped when I saw it. He wore that kilt the night of his 49th birthday. Yes, I said 49th, because my husband never did anything normal. He wanted to embrace the last year in his forties. And honestly, it’s a good thing he did because his fifties were kind of a shit show. We were at a barbeque contest in Fort Smith, Arkansas. There was bottomless whiskey, golf cart races, great food, and tons of laughs with some of the best people on the planet celebrating a man whose personality was bigger than life. I sat on the floor of my closet remembering that weekend, holding his kilt to my chest, allowing the memories to wash over me and run out my eyes.

There is this notion that grief doesn’t mean letting go but rather, moving forward. I have to disagree a little bit. I had to let go of my beautiful parents, my amazing husband, the life I thought I’d have. I’ve had to let go of my routine and my former identity. I’ve had to let go of the thought I was in control. And, as time has passed, I’ve had to let go of the guard around my heart so I can hopefully find love again. Chris Stapleton understood. We’ve all seen our share of broken halos. We’ve all moved through losses that have rearranged us. The letting go is the hardest part.

Angels come down
From the heavens
Just to help us on our way
Come to teach us
Then they leave us
And they find some other soul to save

I know my angel was with me over the weekend. Reminding me that box of clothes was ready to be given to someone who needed them. I held on to the kilt. And that coat in the garage? Well, I’m still not ready to let it go. I’ll probably be holding on to it forever, just like his love.