We are supposed to keep documents for a number of years. And when I moved into my previous house, I was still within that period. So those files found spaces on my shelves. And they stayed there, unopened, for a decade. When we moved homes last year, those files went with me.
Recently I went through them. Many of them had bank statements in them. Official docs. Files from the buying and selling of previous houses. Rates account statements.
There were also many files with his name on them. Some labelled ‘accident’. More labelled ‘Estate Late’. I have always been a little reluctant to touch those files. They are heavy. Emotional. I never really wanted to throw them away, because I was afraid of the memories that were locked in those archives.
I slowly emptied them. I threw all the paper in a bin bag, ready to take to the recycling. And I reflected on how the paper that tells the stories of some aspects of life, can be recycled. But he was long gone. His bank statements almost lived as long as he did.
As I emptied those files, and the bag became fuller, I realised how heavy those files had weighed on me. And as the memories washed over me, and the grief settled a little deeper into my heart, my spirit felt lighter. It was time. Time for him to take up less space in my shelves. Time for him to take up less space in my life. Time for more letting go.
And I discovered that he never lived in those papers. It wasn’t him I was throwing away. He remains in my memories. I still honour his life with our stories. I don’t need old papers as proof that he lived.
My heart will remember.
Written on 13 January 2021
You can find my previous post here
We all still remember. And he will always live on in F.