Some things hold memories for us. Early on in my widowhood, I called them kryptonite. A smell. An initialed stapler. A cookie sheet that baked his favorite cookies. Or something more obvious, like a card, video, or letter.
During my move into Winterpast, everything had belonged to us. Things had been held and packed by us. But the unpacking was something entirely different. I was the one opening the boxes, deciding where things belonged in a life I hadn’t planned. At times, the weight of a memory caused me to close the drawer or box. That was enough for one day.
As days have rolled into years, those moments are fewer and farther between. Pictures now bring a smile and more memories of what was beyond the frame. The photograph holds one instant, but I remember more. What we were doing. Why we were laughing. What happened when someone finally put the camera down.
Find those things. A photograph tucked into a drawer. A recipe with handwritten notes along the edge. A letter you haven’t unfolded in years. If you’re ready, spend a little time with one of them.
Try thinking about the fifteen minutes before the picture and fifteen minutes after. Who suggested taking it? What had you been talking about? Where did everyone go afterward? Pretty soon, you have memories of an entire hour or day.
The same can happen with an ordinary household object. That cookie sheet brings back the kitchen, the smell of something baking, and the person waiting for the first cookie. The story grows as you remember the little things around it.
Write those details down. You don’t have to know where they belong yet. A few words may be enough to hold the memory until you’re ready to tell more. And if today is a day for closing the drawer, you can do that, too.
Many of those small things found their way into Widow: A Journey Toward Life, my memoir of the first year after losing my husband. The book will be released on November 11, and the e-book version is available for preorder now on Amazon. I’m looking forward to sharing that journey with you.
For today, perhaps there’s one drawer waiting to be opened. Who knows what part of your story is tucked inside?