It felt wrong, even though it's supposed to be done

My grandmother died in 2000. Her husband, my Pop, is now living in a retirement apartment. Today, I went into the house to take things to remember them by.

The house still has things in it, but it’s empty. There’s no life. There’s no Pop telling me to watch my step or Grandmom to ask me if I need something quick to eat. All Grandmom’s pretty things she collected over the years, minus some pieces taken by other family members, sat in various places throughout the house.

I raided her kitchen and Pop’s huge, huge, huge tool collection. Homeowner and mom stuff.

I did okay, except in the kitchen. Grandmom not standing there with her favorite knife just hurt. There are two microwaves in there. I remember the first one being bought, and all their kids pooling their money for something so fancy that she rarely used. It’s in excellent shape, and it will come home with me soon. At the sink, though, the knickknacks above the sink gone, it felt wrong. It just felt wrong. Horribly, hurtfully wrong. Does the stuff you get help you deal with the loss? I know I can’t use anything from my other grandmother’s place without thinking of her.

I guess this is the way it will be here, too. Grandmom crafted a lot, and some of her folded-star pillows came home with me. My uncle and I just joked about Pop’s tools. I told him I needed a few screwdrivers and other things; he kept tossing more and more at me, and my brother-in-law already took some! I found a beautiful mother-of-pearl light switch frame, which kept me from unscrewing the one in their guest bedroom. My uncle took some Genie lamps from some cabooses before they went to caboose heaven, and those interested me. They work on kerosene, and they’ll look nice whenever I put them on the mantle.

It’s just stuff, you know? I keep thinking about it, watching my grandmother move around it or watching Pop tinker with things around the house or agreeing out loud with a high-volume deaf-hearing Rush Limbaugh. It hurts to have it; it hurts not to have it. They’re symbols of love, though.

We found things we’d never seen. I couldn’t help but wonder if my grandparents, at one time, went through a relative’s house, just like we did today, and pulled things out, their specialness only known to them, and we picked it up today and put a label on it, “wanted” or “not wanted.”

It’s the people I want most. The doilies are nice; the pillows are beautiful; the ashtray I always feared I would drop on the glass coffee table is still just as heavy. The house is empty, though. The stuff can be replaced; the people can’t.

Heavy stuff for a Chrismtasy time, but I’ll miss them being with us then, too.