I remember trying to clean out dad’s room right after he died. I made a plan. I was going to go in his room, throw out, pack up and pass on dad’s stuff. Lots of people offered to help, but I didn’t take anyone up on their offer. I felt selfish doing it, but I wanted to do it on my own. I had this “pull the band-aide off” attitude. I was just going to go in there and do it. I didn’t want to have to deal with anyone’s grief except my own.

I remember nagging dad to throw some of his things away. Who needs a collection of Crown Royal velvet bags? Or shirts so worn you could see right through them? Or dictionaries and thesauruses that had missing pages? Throwing things away, that I’d seen him keep for years, felt like the right thing to do. Then, I’d come across things that I couldn’t bear to throw away. I spent about 3 hours in his room, crying, sorting, smelling, holding, folding, hanging, but very little throwing away. Through the years, Dad would clear his clutter every now and then, but as I sorted through his things, I was glad he didn’t really listen to my nagging. I would have not had the chance to find bits and pieces of my dad, still here, in his room, waiting for a home. “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” right? I know dad is having a good laugh right now. I get it Dad! Those Crown Royal bags, I’ll give to Olivia to hold her crystal treasures, the worn shirts, I’ll use the material for a quilt to give to my sisters (some day), and the dictionaries and thesaurus, well, I’ll keep them for me and wait for the day my kids nag me to clear my clutter.