WhileI was in rehab, I'd spent a lot of time with this shrink, Dr. Vanessa Travetti.She had talked to me a lot about the past, my relationship with family, my fearof being left alone, and the reluctance I felt about letting go. She never onceshamed me for my methods of coping, but she taught me that, sometimes the bestway to deal with those fears is to do the very thing I was afraid of. And eventhough it might have been a very basic approach, I had never had it laid out sosimply before.
So,I had returned home with just one goal in mind: to get the apartment cleanedand packed up. And that was exactly what the three of us did one rainy day inJanuary. The kitchen was scrubbed, and the appliances were stuffed neatly intoboxes. Pictures were wrapped in newspaper and handled with care, while thecouch and dining room set were dragged out to the street. None of the furnitureheld any value and I wanted nothing to do with any of it, especially that damncoffee table, which I not-so-accidentally dropped off the fire escape.
Whenit came time to tackle our father's room, we did so with care and respect,knowing we would keep nothing but a few sentimental belongings from his closet.
Jenna,now very pregnant with Zach and Greyson's twins, was in charge of unpacking hisdresser, and bagging up his old clothes to be donated. She wrinkled her nose,emptying his underwear drawer into a garbage bag, before gasping.
“Youokay?” I asked, flipping through some ancient receipts the old man had heldonto for reasons I couldn't imagine.
Sheheld up a small bundle of envelopes bound together by a thin, dirty rubberband. “They're from Ma. And they've never been opened.”
Zachand I both dropped what we were doing to look at the crinkled, old envelopes.The rubber band broke as Jenna tried to slide it away, and as she read who theletters were addressed to, her surprise was washed away with an expression ofsorrow.
“Whatis it?” Zach asked, reaching out for the yellowed envelopes.
Sheswallowed before whispering, “They're addressed to us.”
Myjaw locked around the anger I'd been holding onto for far too long, and fromthe looks of it, Zach's did, too. I shook my head and told Jen to burn them,before I returned to the tedious task of rifling through Pops's desk. But Jennaprotested with a firm “hell no” and came to drop the envelope addressed to meon the desk, right beneath my eyes.
“We'regonna read these,” she declared. “We don't have to share 'em with each other,but we need this. We owe it to ourselves, and to Pops. I mean, he held ontothem for a reason.”
Weagreed that we'd keep the letters until we were ready, and in near silence, wefinished packing everything that Pops had held onto throughout the years. Theday left me heavy with an ache in my chest, so great I thought my own heart wasabout to give out on me. My brain struggled to understand how a life so fulland loved could be amounted to just a few boxes and bags full of stuff to betossed and donated. But then, at the end of the night, as I stood in thekitchen with my siblings, our shoulders sagging with grief and despair inwitnessing the end of this chapter of our lives, something dawned on me. Thatmaybe what makes a life full isn’t the stuff we fill it with, but the love andmemories we accumulate throughout the years. And here, in the empty apartment,the heat of that love for Pops was insurmountable.
That’swhat made it so hard.
“Ican’t believe this is it,” Jenna said, staring into the dark living room.
“It’snot like this is the place we grew up in,” Zach reasoned, while fighting hisown emotional battle.
“No,I know,” she replied, wrapping her arms around her big belly. “But this was thelast place he lived. Like, this was the last place that was his. It just feelsso, I dunno, final.”
“Deathis final,” I grunted, itching for the cigarettes I was no longer smoking.
“Youknow, I don't believe that,” Zach said, as his eyes swept over the ceiling. “Imean, I feel like that's what should make sense, 'cause he's not here anymore.Like, I can't see him, so he must be gone. But ... I dunno.” He shrugged,looking back to Jen and me. “I still feel him. And I dunno if that's just somebullshit I'm tellin' myself to feel better or whatever, but I do.”
“So,you think death is more like a new beginning,” Jenna mused, an air of mysticismin her voice.
Zachshook his head. “Nah. I don't see it as an ending or a beginning. More of a, uh... continuation, I think.”
“Well,”I said, slapping him on the shoulder, “I think you're crazy as fuck, and Ithink I'm exhausted. So, I'm gonna head out.”
Thetwo of them nodded with the resignation that it was time. Zach and I hoistedwhat was left of the bags and boxes into our arms, while Jenna pulled her pursefurther onto her shoulder.
“So,I'll take this stuff back to my place for now,” Zach said, “and when you guysare ready, we'll just, I dunno, divvy it up or whatever.”
Inodded. “Sounds good.”
Wehad already discussed this but we were hesitating and stalling, grasping formore time. We didn’t want this to be the last time we ever stood in ourfather's home. And for them, that's all it was, but for me, it was also mine.This was me also letting go of my old life and habits, and I was scared. I hadnever known how scared of the world I was, until I was forced to face it alone,but there was no other way around it. Everything in life is a temporary blip inthe universe, and this moment was no exception.
“Youready, man?”
Zachdrew my attention with a soft tone, and I took a deep breath before noddingtoward the darkness.
“Yeah,I'm good.”
Andas the three of us left the empty apartment and closed the door, I repeatedthose words to myself, hoping one day soon I'd believe them.
I'mgood.
