Everyone must leave something behind when he dies … something your hand touched some way, so your soul has somewhere to go when you die, and when people look at that tree or that flower you planted, you’re there. Ray Bradbury, Fahrenheit 451
If I were a character on the TV show Friends, I would be Monica. She and I share an obsessive need for cleanliness and order and what Anne Lamott refers to as “tiny, tiny control issues.” I am the dinner party host who jumps up to clear the table and load the dishwasher as soon as the meal is over. The outlier who enjoys deep cleaning the house and reorganizing the junk drawer. When my husband Dan asks for the Costco receipt from two weeks ago or wants to know how much we paid for garbage collection last August, I know right where to find the document or information he wants.
This doesn’t mean I only hang onto what I need and use. My closet is full of clothes I haven’t worn in years but can’t bear to give away. Some are well-worn garments with holes that can’t be replaced. Others will fit again, just as soon as I lose 10 or 15 pounds. My file cabinets hold folders from every client I’ve ever worked with going all the way back to 1998. I have boxes of Molly and Jimmy’s artwork, and all the cards my parents ever gave me.
Jimmy shared my sentimentality, but not my love of organization. He much preferred the floor filing system for his dirty clothes to using a laundry bag. The top of his desk was covered with old English assignments and calculus worksheets; sticky notes reminding him of something he needed to do or the title of his favorite song from Coldplay’s new album. The small shelves held paper footballs, Harry Potter CDs, Topps basketball and baseball cards, small rocks with motivational words and other bric-a-brac.
When Jimmy was away at college or too ill to pick up his room, I used to tidy as much of the mess as I could get away with, trying always to find the line between the mess I couldn’t bear to overlook and the stuff he would get annoyed I had relocated or reorganized.
After Jimmy died, I reorganized his desk and straightened up the sports memorabilia on his dresser. I rearranged the photos of him playing recreational soccer, winter basketball and Little League, along with his collection of trophies. I refolded his clothes and made sure all the drawers could shut. But I couldn’t find the energy to go through his desk drawers, stuffed full as they are with a panoply of carefully chosen pens, favorite essays, Pokémon cards and old Nintendo DS games.
Early on, it was far too painful to imagine giving anything away but a few carefully chosen articles of clothing to his best friends who loved him fiercely. I needed to feel like he was still in the house, still present, still here somewhere. I’d wander into his room, desperate to feel close to him. His collection of baseball hats – Stanford, SF Giants, Kansas City Chiefs, LIVESTRONG – still seemed to pulse with his energy. When I ran my hands over his books – The Phantom Tollbooth, A Bear Called Paddington, The Book of Useless Information, Goodnight Moon – I would remember at all ages.
Last winter, Molly and I went through Jimmy’s closet and dresser, making a pile of clothes that could be donated to Goodwill. We’d long before removed anything we want to wear or keep for ourselves. We knew how to sift the rest – which t-shirts he loved best, the stories behind others and which he didn’t care as much about. But we left the desk untouched.
There’s nothing valuable or even purely sentimental in the drawers, but every item bears Jimmy’s fingerprints or handwriting. Each scrap of paper or object has a story, a memory or an act of kindness associated with it. Powerful physical connections to him, they are gentle reminders of the smallest truths about his interests, habits and passions, the essence of who he was.
Even nondescript items can tell a story. Perhaps because there’s mystery to some, insights associated with others, the detritus of Jimmy’s desk has come to be more precious than so much else that remains in his room. Reminders of the music he loved, the words he wrote, what he cared about preserving. The thick stack of cards and letters piled carefully in the bottom drawer tell the story of a young man by people who loved him dearly. Reminders all of who he was, what mattered to him and how he lived.
