“We don’t know how we will grieve until we grieve.”
Chimamanda Adichie
It had been three weeks since I lost Danny to cancer. My friend. My lover. My soulmate. Three weeks of grief so profound I didn’t think I could survive it. Wasn’t sure I wanted to survive it. The pain was so all consuming, I couldn’t bring myself to sort through his things. I didn’t want to lose any part of him that remained.
But I knew I needed to try to move on. To accept that he wasn’t coming back and make a new life out of my new reality. For the first time in nearly twenty years, since we were young kids of fifteen, I was alone, and he had told me repeatedly during those last days that he wanted me not to stop living. But to embrace life and all that it had to offer.
So I slowly began to pack away his belongings. As I folded his shirts, I breathed in his scent that lingered in the fabric. That clean, male scent that I recognized as uniquely his. And I cried as I ached to feel his arms around me just one more time.
Going through his sock drawer, I found myself chuckling through my tears at all those that had holes worn at the toes. No matter how often I replaced them, the new always wound up looking like the old after only a few washings.
On and on I sorted through the brick-a-brak of his life, choosing what to keep and forcing myself to let the rest go. My sister helped me to take boxes filled with shoes and clothing to donate to a local charity. Many items I gave to his parents and siblings. Others, those tied to more intimate memories, I kept for myself.
Then came the day I found myself faced with a garage that still seemed filled with his presence. This had been his man cave. Here he’d spent hours tinkering with old cars and motorcycles as an avocation. It had provided a welcome extra income, but more importantly, it had given him opportunities to do what he loved. After me, I’m sure any one of those old vehicles would have come in a close second in his affections!
As I am hopeless with tools, I knew it would be a waste to hang on to them. I decided to offer them to his best friend, Walter. The one with whom Danny had shared many of those zen moments over cold beer and grease. There had been a long pause then a gruffly murmured acceptance when I asked. I wasn’t the only one who was grieving. Walter had been the third member of our three musketeers. The other two being myself and Danny. We had lost our D’Artagnan and things would never be the same.
On that rainy Saturday afternoon Walter and I began to pack up all the tools and repair equipment. We had been working almost silently, each of us dealing with our own emotions, when he suddenly said my name.
“Yes?” I asked, and saw him bent over a small toolbox. It was the pink toolbox that Danny had bought me shortly after we were married. Filled with implements that were designed for a woman’s hand and meant to be used around the house. Not on motors. Since he was the one who made all the repairs, I seldom had use for the pink tool box so I had almost forgotten that it was there.
“I had forgotten you had this,” Walter said, then looked up with a sad grin. “Have you ever used it?”
I shook my head.
“No. Never had to.”
I stepped over to take the box from his hands. I smiled even as the ever present tears again came to my eyes. I remembered the day I’d opened the surprisingly heavy gift bag. It had been a Saturday and my birthday. He had taken me out to lunch and an afternoon matinee at the classic movie theater. Afterward, we had returned home where he had surprised me with a small cake and the gift. I remembered his excitement as I’d lifted the box from inside the gift bag. He’d wrapped it in several layers of tissue paper so getting to the gift itself took a few moments before I saw what it was.
Many women would have been insulted by such a gift. Tools? What woman would be happy with tools? But I was touched by it as I knew he was giving something of himself to me. Something from his heart. Something meant to connect us in yet another way. And I had treasured it for the unique gift that it was.
Setting the toolbox down on the counter, I opened it and stared down at the pink handled contents, still brand new after all these years. Then I noticed another, smaller box and an envelope tucked away in a corner. A rectangular box bearing the name of a local jeweler and wrapped with a ribbon. They hadn’t been there the last time I looked inside. My hand trembled as I picked it up and I just stared at it for a long time.
“What is it?” Walter asked, but I barely heard him above the pounding of my heart.
With shaking fingers, I removed the ribbon then opened the box. Inside, on a bed of white velvet, was a gold disk hanging from a fine gold chain. I turned it toward the light so I could better make out the ornate inscription.
"Don’t Stop"
I felt a warm sensation move through me, almost as if I’d been gently touched. Wasn’t that exactly what I’d been in danger of doing? Setting the jewelry down, I reached for the envelope and withdrew the card inside. It was a lovely card depicting a hummingbird amongst fuchsia blossoms. Inside Danny, in his bold, masculine style, had written,
“I know you’re hurting and I wish I could be there to kiss away your tears. But you must go on. Find love again and live the life you were meant to live. You are so beautiful. My endless ray of sunshine. Live, honey, and know I will always love you. Danny.”
Reading those words, my heart seemed to explode on a flood of emotion and I had to lean on the counter to hold myself up. Alarmed, Walter wrapped a burly arm around my shoulders and pulled me into a hug.
“I am so sorry,” he whispered, his voice once again gruff with his own pain.
He allowed me to sob for what seemed like a long time, but I finally regained control of myself and pulled away. Lifting the necklace from the box I offered it to him.
“Would you mind putting it on me?”
He took the necklace from me and I turned my back as I lifted the hair from my neck. The chain settled gently against my skin, almost like a caress. I could have sworn I felt Danny’s presence looking on. Once it was clasped, I stepped away and turned back to face Walter. With one hand on the pink tool box and the other fingering the pendant, I gave him a teary but reassuring smile.
Yes, touching. And so thoughtful for Danny, knowing that he was going to die from cancer, to obtain the necklace and write the note that he knew she would find.
You have a way of coming up with unique love stories. My household tools were a combination of some tools my grandfather gave me and ones I picked up that were essential around the house. Placed in a drawer on our kitchen island.
When I no longer could use them, Beh has often gone to that drawer and used them to fix little things around the house. She is getting quite handy and has acquired lots more tools both for the house and her shop.
