The kids were away for the long weekend, involved in their own activities, so we decided to visit my mom.
One of the things she has taken on at this stage of her grief in losing my dad is trying to gift his old items to friends and family who will give the items a new home.
This sounds thoughtful and reasonable, until you realize that the man had a lot of items. Even after she'd hauled 8 bags full of dad's old clothes to the local thrift shop, the closet was packed with clothing on hangers, many items still with the labels attached.
Mom had told me she was waiting for me to see if I wanted of his clothes before she gave the rest away, so I obliged and looked through his closets and drawers.
Dad was a quantity guy. He never met a deal he could resist, and he never resisted a deal. A partial accounting of the items I found in his closet:
- Lime green golf pants (did did not golf).
- Multiple new shirts presumably used as uniforms by employees of the Wendy's burger chain with their logo on the shirt pocket.
- A bazillion laser pointers and fake Montblanc pens bought on a trip to Canal Street in NYC.
- T-shirts purchased in bulk from bodegas, typically with tropical tourist images, a large cursive "Miami" across the front, and a small stain that explained their presence in the 50% off bin.
This is not to say dad only wore bargain basement items - just that he owned a great many of them.
There were a lot of high quality shirts and pants - they just reflected dad's style, not mine. In the end, I took one hiking shirt from his closet.
The biggest surprise was a trove of old family photos in a manila envelope that had been bequeathed to my dad by his cousin when his great aunt passed away.
There was a photo from the turn of the last century of a distant relative my grandfather said had perished in a fire in New York City.
There were several childhood photos of me, which were a pleasant surprise. We lost our home in a fire in 1990, so I can count the photos I have of me as a child on one hand.
The envelope contained photos my mom had mailed the great aunt over the years as we grew up, as well as photos of my dad as a child - goofing around at a children's birthday party, sporting a suit and tie next to his older brother, in a smart outfit from the 1960s that made my mom comment on what a good-looking man he was in his prime.
There was a photo of the paternal great grandfather I never met (my middle name honors him) looking intense and difficult to please.
There was a dated photo of my grandparents looking elegant together - I calculated that my grandfather was exactly five years older than I am now.
There was an event from forty years ago where my younger brother and sister, both at ages in the single digits, danced together and won a giant Hershey's Kiss for looking so cute on the dance floor.
I had a deluge of questions about so many of the photos - who was that cousin? How was the fellow with the mustache holding an unlit cigar related to us again?
It was a bittersweet treasure.
I was delighted at the memories these photos jogged - and heartbroken that the person I most wanted to share them with was gone.
It still catches me by surprise in the moment before I call out his name, and it shatters me anew.
Dad is gone.