I’m convinced that rearranging furniture and redecorating are unnamed stages of grief. Yesterday morning, I decided to rearrange the guest room. I enlisted the help of my son because moving bulky furniture is no fun alone.
It didn’t take long for me to remember why I don’t ask for his help very often. Our approaches to the task at hand differ greatly: his to speed through and mine to ponder and place.
“Why don’t you get rid of this, Mom?” (holding up some random thing found in a storage cube)
Good question. Pinch. Ouch.
My mind wandered to the grief task of dealing with the ‘stuff’ hubs left behind: clothes, books, papers, photos, flashlights, calculators: a lifetime of accumulated and retained objects. The bonus kids accomplished the cleanout in what felt like lightning speed to my griefstruck brain. I’m grateful. They kept me from what would have been an overwhelming chore, emotionally and physically. I’ll never forget the weight of the garbage bin filled with his old photo albums, ones he likely lugged through 8 moves. Also, shredding the 16 bags worth of papers he intended to file ‘someday’ was oddly therapeutic. Let’s just say I’m on a first name basis with the village sanitation drop-off clerk.
After the photo album purging incident, I’ve been applying my own version of Swedish Death Cleaning to my accumulation of stuff. My version: I visualize someone tossing my junk into the trash. Then I do a gut check. Does the prospect of this thing being thrown out hurt more than giving it away and finding it a new home? Do what hurts less. I have agency over my possessions while living. When I’m dead? Not so much. I suppose I won’t care.
The item my son questioned was a grief gift. Seeing and touching it reminds me of the giver. I’m not ready to part with it just yet. Why hold onto it? It’s not particularly my style. It’s in a box and not on display. Tossing or donating it would feel like a betrayal to the giver. How would they feel if they knew that I just tossed it?
“Just throw it away, Mom.”
I explain the grief gift thing. He doesn’t get it. I snapped at him. He’s one to talk because his apartment is trashed. My house is at least an organized mess.
“Two different things, Mom.” Woof. He’s right.
This rearranging stage of grief? Forget the furniture. A rearranging of priorities is in order.
I’m keeping the small grief gift item for now, but these cubbies will be finding a new home. Thanks, cubbies, for all the toys, books, trinkets, and miscellanea you’ve held. After 18 years and 6 moves through 4 states, I am letting go. Your next owner can ponder your backstory and know how much you were loved. Who knows, you may even become a TikTok DIY makeover marvel.
P.S. The Kitty Committee was not consulted for prior authorization of the new furniture placement in the guest room. They’re pissed.