Grief Graffiti

Shortly after my son passed I had to tackle the heart wrenching task of packing up his condo so I could get it rented out. It was a mess, dishes in the sink, laundry on the bed, books strewn around, a box of VooDoo donuts half eaten on the kitchen counter. Signs he didn’t intend to not be here the next day. Standing there in his place, still numb from shock, I saw so much in that mess he left behind; memories, plans, hopes, dreams. What he might have been thinking or feeling. Was he scared? Did he see it coming? It was a lot to process & something I’m still processing. Today I read a post from a fellow bereaved mother that resonated so much with me about this. So I wanted to share:

“I’ve been thinking, lately, about the messes we leave behind. When I leave the house for an extended period, I always clean just a little deeper. My vanity reasons that if someone needs to enter my home while I’m gone, I don’t want the dirt to show.

I can’t say my daughter, Emma, was quite the same. She didn’t clean often, and all of her friends joked that wherever she went, she left a “trail of Emma,” but when she moved into college, she left her bedroom upstairs remarkably clean. But her apartment at college…

Her apartment was a mess that day. It spoke of a fun weekend and a quick exit. It affirmed a rushed throwing of things in a backpack with a clear intention to return to clean up later. It screamed of her “Don’t-worry-I-won’t-be-gone-for-long” plans.

So a mess was left behind.

Bed unmade. Clothes on the floor. Perfume with just a bit left in the bottle. A Cheerio resting lightly on the carpet. Ticket stubs in the wallet. Notes of debts owed to roommates-a few dollars here and there for coffee or lunch or gas. Plans to pay it back. To make the bed. To vacuum the floor. A Costco-sized pack of toilet paper in the closet. A year’s worth of laundry detergent waiting….

A clear resolve to use the perfume again. A bold and audacious plan to spray it all over her body the following day and the day after that and the day after that and the day after that until she’d buy a new bottle and then another.

Makeup on the counter. Half-used soap in the shower. A backpack with a few items thrown quickly inside–just enough to get her through a couple of days–because she’d be back to her apartment soon enough. To clean up the clutter. To tidy up the mass of papers and dirty plates and unfinished plans.

You don’t leave it behind unless you “know” you’re coming back. In the middle of the mess is a smug claim on tomorrow. Strewn among the wrinkled sheets and the cereal on the floor is an unwavering commitment to another day. It’s an obstinate, in-your-face, dogged vice-grip on life–

All perfectly displayed in the mess we leave behind.

Things said and unsaid.

Memories—

—Fading memories.

Flashbacks of my sweet girl in a casket.

A casket!

Of her mangled car.

Of that night.

Of what she might have been thinking or feeling. Was she scared? Did she see the truck coming?

Fantasies of her walking in the front door again. Of her hugging me from behind in a dramatic surprise–the longest hide-and-seek game ever recorded. The Guinness Book of World Records following her with cameras to catch my reaction.

I can’t remember her voice most of the time.

And I wonder what she’d say if she were here or there and–

I’m not sure anymore. I can’t predict it. I can’t remember.

She’s distant.

One more day without her.

One more month. One more year.

Trying to hold on to her.

Trying to move forward without her.

Trying to do both of those at the same time.

Trying to be positive and grateful and keep it together but the reality is that it is all just

one

more

mess

that she left behind.

But–just like her room–there is life in this mess, too. There is an intention to carry on to the next day and the day after that. There is something about a mess that testifies that you’re living–really living. Maybe not perfectly. Maybe not in a way that you’d always be proud of or want to plaster pictures all over social media about–and definitely not the way you would choose–but you’re in the now, nonetheless. It’s a snapshot in time. It’s a photograph of a moment in action.

Cleaned-up spaces don’t quite give the same vibe. Maybe that’s why she never really cared for them that much. Cleaned-up and sanitized spaces speak of resolution and closure and pretense. Of finality. Of fiction.

Messes, on the other hand, speak of a life being lived. Honestly. Clumsily. And they audaciously promise tomorrow.

Even if they don’t deliver it.

So I’m learning that this mess that we are in–the one that she left behind in our hearts and in our minds–will probably never be as organized as I’d like. But that’s ok. It has to be ok. We don’t have a choice. But it points to the life that was lived. The beautiful, stubborn, I-promise-I’ll-see-you-again life that she lived.

And there is a glimpse of peace in the mess. Of promise in the mess. Of progress and possibility in the mess. And I can meet her there, too. When I allow myself to really remember her. When I spray the perfume or open the closet or re-play the videos or imagine her in heaven. She’s there, still. Living and loving.

While we wait.

In the mess she left behind.”

~Sherry Bullock