Tuesday, December 2, 2014

A Room

I've been thinking about minimalism and simplicity lately.  If you saw our house, you would probably wonder how that's possible.  We have a lot of emotional and consumerist clutter.  I'm pretty picky about what I keep, but sometimes it's still hard for me to get rid of birthday cards and gifts I don't have use for.  My husband is worse.  He still has a movie ticket stub collection.  Thankfully it's still at his parents' house, because it is not coming into our home.  I love him, but a woman's got to have a code.  That code is 'No ticket stubs. Ever.'

I like the idea of minimalism.  After moving last year, I realized how much useless junk we have.  I don't necessarily want to have zero possessions and all white walls, but I do want less junk.  Less of what I don't love.

This feeling stems from that closed room upstairs.  All the clothes she didn't wear, the toys she didn't play with, the books she didn't read.  I know they are just things, but they are things I'm not willing to part with.  Not now and maybe not ever.

I do not like keeping things simply because they have an emotion attached to them.  One of the first gifts my husband ever bought me was a printer for my digital camera.  It was an amazing gift that only worked for about a year and the supplies were crazy expensive to boot.  I couldn't get rid of that thing for years.  It sat in closet after closet until I realized I would always remember the feeling of opening such a perfect gift from someone so important regardless if I had the printer or not.  I remember it now, eight years later.  He knew I loved my camera and taking pictures, so he gave me this amazingly thoughtful gift.  That's why I love him and married him.

It's different with Ramona's things.  They are just things.  I know this.  She didn't wear the clothes, she didn't play with the toys, I didn't read her the books.  In my rational, practical mind, these are all reasons to not keep them.  The emotion behind them is too strong, though.  I made memories in that room and with her clothes and toys and books.  I washed her dresses and onesies and socks and hung them up and folded them with her inside me.  I rearranged the furniture and debated where to put her blankets and what to put on her shelves.  The top drawer of her dresser was organized to the nth degree with dividers and I was so proud of that drawer.

The night I went into labor, when I thought she was still alive and would be coming home with us on Christmas Day, I went into that room to get my bags.  I was giddy from excitement and fear, the way a first-time mom should feel.  I can faintly remember that feeling.  It bubbled into my chest and I couldn't stop laughing. 

I hold on to the memories of her alive and safe now.  The memories attached to her things were not the memories I thought we'd make, but they are all I have.  So out goes the ugly wrought iron baker's rack, and the faded Beatles glasses that turn our hands black.  I need room for my daughter. 

The good memories are starting to peek through the dark clouds of my mind.  For the longest time all I could remember about her were the darkest, saddest moments, so when I can grab on to a good one, I hold tight.  While her room is just a room, and her things will not bring her to me, I need them more than anything else I possess.  A room that is empty but not. 

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