What Death Leaves Behind

School picture day was recently.  Report cards also went home this week.  While most parents don't care at all about these seemingly insignificant events, they were extremely hard on our family.  Instead of two report cards to be proud of, I only had one. I saw facebook posts by proud parents and pictures of kids who had made honor roll.  It’s awesome that parents get excited about their kids’ successes, so if you are one of these parents, don’t stop.

It’s just that knowing that only one of my boys would come home from school and I’d only have one report card to stick to the fridge, only one yearbook to order, only one class picture to order, made for a very depressing day and many many tears.  

There are so many things that I will miss out on with Jameson gone, but what I’ve been wanting to write about today is the things that death leaves behind.  

When my mom passed away suddenly last spring (can you believe that her first anniversary in Heaven was the day after my son’s funeral?), I remember walking into my dad’s house and feeling overwhelmed by the thought that “she was just here!”  Her glass of water was still on the table. Her shoes that she had slipped off were tucked under her desk. Her computer was still turned on.

When death comes suddenly, and even when it doesn’t come suddenly, it leaves behind horrible, horrible reminders that this person was just here and now suddenly they are not.  Part of you wants to get rid of all of these reminders at once, thinking that maybe cleaning them up will ease the pain. But the stronger urge is to not touch them. How dare I put away the souvenirs of my son?  Sometimes I am brave enough to touch them. When I reach for my jacket in the closet, sometimes I'll take a few seconds to hold his. I walk into the office and my eye drifts over to his blue backpack, on the shelf where he left it. Occasionally, I will plop down on the floor and go through each and ever zippered compartment. The bedroom that he shared with Rhys remains mostly unused. The door stays shut, but sometimes I go in and hold his stuffed animals, smell his clothes, or read the books on his dresser.

What a Death Leaves Behind

Death leaves behind a basket of Jameson’s sneakers by the front door.

Death leaves behind half finished chapter books with homemade bookmarks tucked inside.

Death leaves behind a drawer full of clean underwear and socks.

Death leaves behind his collection of stuffed animals, including a ratty old kangaroo that Dan bought when Jameson arrived home from the hospital after birth.

Death leaves behind his backpack, complete with his homework folder inside.  It sits on a shelf in the office where he kept it every night.

Death leaves behind his favorite blue fleece jacket and winter coat, put away neatly, ready for the next day of school that he would never get to attend.

Death leaves behind a poster contest entry that I had been meaning to secretly throw away but now I can’t seem to part with.

Death leaves behind his electric toothbrush and half used tube of toothpaste and mouthwash.

Death leaves behind his collection of Valentine’s Day cards and candy that he had recently brought home from school.  He hardly got to touch it.

Death leaves behind his wallet, which I kept in my purse and is in there still.  It holds gift cards from past birthdays. He never got a chance to spend them.

Death leaves behind an empty booster seat in the car.

Death leaves behind his huge collection of library books that he had checked out.  

Death leaves behind Jameson’s Sunday school journal.  He had recently been invited to join a small Bible study and he only got to attend one class.  

Death leaves behind his head lamp that Uncle Matt and Aunt Collyn gave him for Christmas.  He used it as a reading light because he liked to read every night before falling asleep. It now hangs from his bed post.  

Death leaves behind his empty place at our kitchen table.   I rotated the table slightly and I think that made our places look different enough to be able to use.  It’s a weird explanation, I know.

Death leaves behind unfinished lego sets and a wooden chessboard with a game that he never got to finish with Rhys.  

Death leaves behind a brand new baseball bat, batting gloves, and backpack.  He was going to have tryouts the Saturday after he passed.

Death leaves behind family portraits still hanging on the walls of our home, showing an intact family.  

The things that death leaves behind both torture me and comfort me. They taunt me to hold them, touch them, cry over them. And then they sit their silently, ignored, unused, and collecting dust, fading from the sunlight pouring through our windows.

I think about these things, the stuff of Jameson's life, that is left behind. Sometimes I will look at them closely, hoping to feel Jameson's presence again, catch a certain scent, or maybe find a little note from him that I hadn't noticed before.

This home, with all of his things, is hard to live in. I spend as much time outside of this house as possible. I avoid cleaning it. The mess frustrates me and causes stress, but I don't want to spend enough time in the house to do something about it. I don't have the energy to fold the laundry or tidy up the table, even though I know from experience that it wouldn't take much of my time. I worry that my eyes will wander to one of his things and I'll be pulled away by a reminder of the little boy who used to live here. "He was just here." Just like when my mom died. But now he is not here. He is not going to pop out of his room giggling as if he's been playing hide and go seek. He's not going to come through the front door, as if he were simply shooting hoops in the driveway. He was just here, but he isn't anymore and he is not coming back, no matter what of his things are left behind. It's a reality that I just have to face.