When Is It Time to Let Go of Their Things?

Living alone with the memories

I’m sitting amidst the mess in my husband’s old office, breathing hard and wishing for a cocktail. I have spent my afternoon assembling a bookshelf, and I am pooped. Maybe I shouldn’t have tried to do this by myself.

I wrote that Saturday. A few weeks ago, after the old yellow metal bookshelf collapsed, I ordered a wooden one from Amazon for $73. It came in pieces in a box too heavy for me to lift. Does anything come fully built anymore?

I have put together eight bookshelves, a lamp, a table, two patio chairs, an adjustable desk chair, and two cheesy desks over the years. I get it done, but I am not particularly skilled at it. Something always ends up upside down or backwards. Every time.

Sometimes I need more hands and wind up using my feet and the wall and anything else to hold the various parts. Only once did I call for help. It was so much easier with two people, but I’m the kind of woman who wants things done right now, not next Tuesday, so pretty soon I have torn open the box and moved the pieces to the construction site, where I spread them from hither to yon and squint at the directions, which may or may not be in English.

Surrounded by unshelved books, I spent two days working in lousy light, bending, kneeling and crawling, hammering and screwing. My back was killing me. I had to build my bookshelf in place because it would be too heavy for me to move.

When I stopped working on it Friday night, I had only to nail on the backing and insert the shelf, but my screwdriver hand was shaking, and I needed to lie down. I closed the door on the mess and went off to read a book.

I wasn’t planning to work on it Saturday, but I had an hour to kill, and I couldn’t help myself. It went pretty well. As I nailed 30 nails, each 5.5 inches apart, I decided nailing was more fun than screwing. Take that how you will.

But remember, something always goes wrong. When I lifted the assembled shelf, the doohickey that hides the rough edges on the left front fell off. Not good. You have to slide it up a groove on a bit of bare wood sticking out, and if you don’t get it just right, it doesn’t hold.

I had to remove another many-screwed piece to get to the beginning of the slide. Putting it back on was another story. Suddenly, I wasn’t sure which way was up and feared the whole bookshelf was upside down and backwards.

It wasn’t, but I had to keep running to the living room to check a similar bookcase to make sure. How come I never noticed that one was tilted?

Back in the office, I screwed the top thing back on, banged the side thing into place, and hoped it wouldn’t fall off every time I walked by in a hurry. Isn’t there some philosophy about always building a flaw into your art? Trust me, I always do.

Almost finished, I tilted the bookshelf up and started to nudge it into place. I thought of another place where it might look better and started to drag it over there. It didn’t fit, so I hipped it to the original spot, where it kind of fits, but it looks . . . off. It’s not the uneven edges in the back or the sidepiece that might fall off if I slam the door. It’s just too big for this little room.

It is a little room. All the rooms in this house are tiny. The day we moved in, we thought we had it all figured out, but after the movers brought in the bed, one dresser and the nightstands, we all stood outside the master bedroom wondering what to do with the other dresser. That dresser, which I had had since I was a child, went to charity. Tiny rooms.

Fred’s office wasn’t so bad, but in 27 years, rooms fill up. This room where he used to pay the bills, conduct his tax preparation business, and play video games is now the business office/warehouse for my writing/publishing business. There are books and office supplies everywhere. Amps, mics and other gear for my music biz lurk in the closet with more books and mailing supplies. There’s stuff on top of every flat surface, and the walls are pretty much covered.

Sitting in my husband’s big swivel chair at his rolltop desk, I looked around. It felt like I hadn’t really seen this room in a long time. It has been sixteen years since Fred occupied this space. Most of his things are still here. I felt the need to honor his memory by not disturbing what he left behind. I simply added my own things.

The new bookshelf has upset the balance, tilting Fred’s office into an extension of Sue’s office.

Should I take down his pictures and plaques and start over? With each of Fred’s possessions that I remove, whether it’s a poster or a pencil, I feel like I lose a little more of him. I know he doesn’t care anymore, but I want to keep feeling his presence in that room.

I knew when it was time to take off my wedding ring. I knew when it was time to give away Fred’s clothes. Is it time to take his memories off the walls and replace them with new ones? It hurts to think about it.

The same thing is happening in the living room. Every shabby piece of furniture and even the ugly carpet has a memory attached. The hardest to part with are the things Fred gave to me. Is it ungrateful to discard them? Is there a number of years after which it’s okay?

It’s like the red jacket I thought I would wear to church on Saturday with a white blouse and black slacks. When I looked in the closet, it was gone. I had forgotten I gave it to Goodwill a few months ago because it was out of style and didn’t fit well anymore. But I used to look really good in that jacket. I guess I want to hold on to the woman I was when I bought it as a newly fledged newspaper editor.

I’m not a hoarder, but I’m not good at letting go of things.

Some might say I should stop making bookshelves and start getting rid of books. You’re right. I’m working on it. I built this particular bookshelf because I had all these author copies of my books stored in boxes and piled everywhere. I’m tired of scrambling to find a copy every time I get an order or need books to sell at an event.

The other books, the ones that fell on the floor, are short-timers. I’m reading them and giving them away as quickly as possible. If I don’t enjoy a book, I stop reading and toss it. Even if I do enjoy it, it has to go.

I may not build any more bookshelves. Eight is enough, and my back can’t take any more, but I did it. I filled it with books yesterday, and I like it way better than the old yellow one that fell apart.

I wasn’t planning to post this, but who else am I going to talk to about this stuff?

As always, I have questions.

• Do you buy and assemble furniture on your own or call for help?

• When is it time to stop building and adding to your home and start taking apart and giving away?

• How do you decide what to get rid of, especially if it belonged to someone you loved? What about the things that were special gifts?

• How do we release the possessions of spouses, parents and grandparents, in-laws, siblings and friends and honor the memories?

• Is there a time when you can say, well, I loved it for x number of years, so now it’s okay to pass it on? When?

I welcome your comments.

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How did I end up alone? My first marriage ended in divorce. My second husband died of Alzheimer’s after we had moved to the Oregon coast, far from family. I never had any kids, only dogs. Now I live by myself in a big house in the woods. You can read our story in my memoir, No Way Out of This: Loving a Partner with Alzheimer’s, available at your favorite bookseller. Visit https://www.suelick.com for information on all of my books.