I went into Barbara’s closet yesterday.

It’s a large walk-in closet.

Every free space has a picture,

A photo of a child or grandchild.

Where there is room there’s even a small photo album

Or loose picture

Shoved in a corner

or leaning against a shelf.

I sat down in the rocking chair.

Just sat.

And rocked.

I looked at the pictures.

I breathed in.

And out.

I let it all wash over me.

I looked at the clothing.

Some of it I recognized.

From certain moments we’d shared.

Family events we’d spent together.

I looked at all of the faces.

Clarke’s brothers and sisters:

Barbara’s six children.

Pictures of her nine grandchildren.

I felt them all looking back at me.

And I began to cry.

As I am crying now.

I was so sad for them.

I am so sad for them.

I rocked back and forth.

I just breathed in and out.

I looked around.

I saw a garment bag hanging on a rod.

I realized it was the bag.

That garment bag was in the car.

With her.

When it crashed.

There were three small holes in it.

Gouges.

In the plastic.

They were so real. So tangible. So grotesque.

Over on my left, her purse sat on the floor of the closet.

It was with her in the car,

At her feet in the car:

A large green leather bag.

And there was another tote bag too:

Just as I’d imagined there would be,

With the monogrammed toiletry kit I’d given her sitting on top.

There, too: a plastic bag with gifts for each grandchild.

And a gift I know was for me:

Halloween-themed embroidered tea towels.

We always bought each other those on holidays.

I had gone through her large black suitcase earlier in the day,

Not wanting her children to have to.

I took out her personal things--

Checkbooks, pictures, vitamins...

And put the clothes back in.

The suitcase was now in the closet too.

It was a nice place.

I felt her in that closet.

The essence of her.

It was the way she wanted it.

The things she loved.

Figurines,

Pictures,

Books,

A few dolls

and stuffed animals.

I rocked in the chair.

I had a good cry.

I touched some of her clothes.

I gingerly touched her purse.

I felt like I was doing something I shouldn’t be.

I didn’t take anything out of it;

I couldn’t.

I just touched the bag.

I just wanted to touch something that was probably the last thing

She had touched.

I just needed to.

And when I was done I walked around the corner to

My father-in-law’s closet.

And there I got back to work re-organizing.

I cleaned out every drawer and shelf.

Everything was now easy for his rotating staff of family helpers to

Find.

He might not really care.

He might have even liked it messy.

He might not care that I made the bed with the nicest hospital

Corners.

Or that I fluffed the pillows on the bed just-so.

But I think that he deserves it.

I think he deserves to know how much we love him.

And how thankful we are to have him alive.

He doesn’t have his wife to do little things for him anymore.

So I figure it’s important

That he has the women in his family to

Do some of these things for him.

Later I told Clarke I’d had a good cry in his mother’s closet.

I said it was good.

Cathartic.

Almost as if it had been a little way of saying goodbye.

And then Clarke told me something.

“She’s in there you know.”

“What?”

“Mom. She’s in there. Her ashes.”

Then it made sense.

It really was goodbye.

It really is her closet.

She really was in there.

I don’t believe in life after death.

I don’t believe Barbara is watching me.

I don’t believe she can see what I’m doing,

Or that she’s looking down on me.

Maybe some of you do.

Maybe some of her children do.

I don’t do

any of the things

I’m doing

because I think she’s

watching me.

I do them

because

while she was alive

I know we both

agreed on

what was

right

and

good

and

true

and

proper.

And just because

she’s not alive

anymore

doesn’t mean

I’m going to stop

doing

things

that

way.