Okay, I thought, gonna go to the coffee shop and finally write.

I grabbed my notebook, pen, phone, and keys, and walked to the door… then set them all down.

Nope. Not today. Maybe tomorrow.

I haven’t been able to write since he died, except for two paragraphs one day not long after. I love writing, truly enjoy the process, but I think my spirit is still in “protective mode”. I will not allow myself to write what I need to; not yet. And if there’s any inkling that I might anyway, I shut down.

Until now, that is. ‘Cuz look! I just wrote this! And my only goal is to write a moment that happened yesterday, after I once again failed in the attempt.

Once I had set my notebook and keys down, I decided to visit dad’s room. I don’t go in there often but make a point not to avoid it, so I figured if I wasn’t going to write, I’d visit with dad. It’s so very hard that he’s gone, especially since he lived with us for many years, but I find his room can be a healing space. When I’m really missing him, it acts as a sort of “dad bubble”, and I can sit among his things and remind myself that yes, he really was here.

The tears came instantly, and I let them flow as I lit a candle for him. I opened his closet door and sat down, a wave of loss cascading as I lined up his adorable old-man-Velcro shoes. His hamper still has clothes in it I should probably wash. But they’re the last things he wore, and I don’t want him to disappear any more than he already has. The laundry can wait.

Behind his hamper was a giant pack of toilet paper my sister had sworn was in there, but that I couldn’t find before. I laughed through tears and texted her. I moved the hamper and pulled out the Sam’s value-pack of TP. He loved Sam’s. He went there nearly every day for exercise, walking the zero-incline aisles with his portable oxygen machine buzzing in his cart. He’d load up on paper towels, toilet paper, and candy before picking up a prescription from Marie the Pharmacist, who absolutely adored him.

When I put his hamper back, a shiny quarter stared at me heads-up that I hadn’t seen at all when I sat down.

“I’ll take it,” I said aloud, accepting it as a sign he was there with me. I cried even more.

The next moment, I felt his voice (I never hear his voice in my head, but I feel it. I feel his words, his tone, and twangy accent, and they pop in my head without my input).

“What’re ya doin’ cryin’ in my closet, Vern?”

I laughed and choked back tears to argue with him. “I’m just missing you, dad.”

I pulled myself off the floor and away from his closet, only to turn and face his dresser and desk, and bins with all kinds of knickknacks. Dad’s things. It’s odd how grief can make even the simplest rubber band and paper clip hold the weight of the world. These are his things, his belongings; how could they ever not be here?

I hadn’t come into his room to go through his things and get rid of them. No way. Everything is staying put for now until who knows. I just came to feel him; to remember him.

I rummaged through his dresser drawers, chatting with him sometimes when I found something interesting or curious. I pushed his many partial prescriptions for pain, leg cramps, and sleep meds aside, trying to ignore them. He had endured a lot of pain, and waves of empathy and helplessness washed over me. Lidocaine patches glared hostilely at me as I uncovered them from beneath his socks and underwear.

I found myself on the floor again as I peered into the bottom dresser drawer. Beneath shirts and shorts, I found an old album, and had a feeling I knew what it was. I gently took it out and set the sacred object on the floor.

When my mom died sixteen years ago, I was given a few of her things, including this album. It was the book from my sister’s funeral. She died in 1997. I carefully held the small scrap of newspaper with her obituary and read her name in bold black classic font. “Cassie Regina Theresa Paris.”

I stared in disbelief. I had completely forgotten she had two middle names. I remember her as Cassie Regina, forgetting that she’d also been given my mom’s name, Theresa.

The album was set in the backing of a box, and when I lifted it out of its container, a handful of medallions jingled underneath it. A heavy weight filled my heart. My sister’s medallions. The small, silver, patron saints dangled from the chain of her necklace. I tried to read what saints they were, but my eyes were too blurred with tears. I scooped them up and held them next to my chest.

“Yes. I remember,” I told my mom.

The last time I saw them was the night my sister died. I watched as my mother lost her daughter, and through her wailing placed them on my sister’s still chest.

As I remembered, I wasn’t consumed in grief as I had been all those years ago. Instead, I felt a wave of compassion for my mom. It was a compassion I couldn’t extend to her at the time, lost in grief as I was. I try to be kind to my fourteen-year-old self in those memories.

Awareness came to me that I was sitting on the floor in my dad’s room, holding my sister’s medallions, and talking to my mom. I felt gratitude, comfort, loss, and unconditional love. They’re all together now, and my dad had been so ready to be reunited.

I placed Cassie’s necklace back in the album and put it back in my dad’s drawer, but I wasn’t quite ready to leave yet. I sauntered over to the other side of his desk and again sat on the floor to pilfer through his books and notebooks. One stood out and I plucked it from the white cubby shelf: 14,000 Things to Be Happy About, by Barbara Ann Kipfer.

This was Cassie’s book, and although it had been too painful to peruse all those years ago, I thumbed through its pages and studied the things my sister had underlined or circled. I smiled.

“Frozen white chocolate mousse with raspberry sauce.  The cool underside of a pillow. Kicking off your shoes and splashing your feet in a fountain. Dinner with laughter. Stargazing. A basket of balloons…”

And on the first page, she’d underlined one that made me laugh out loud. It reminds me of how simple, funny, and precious life is. And it’s a fabulous note to end on.

“The position of your head as you bite into a taco.”