Going Back

Going through your old things has a way of getting to you, one way or another.

That’s jumping ahead a bit, but there really isn’t any way to begin this story, except, perhaps, before I was born.

When my mom was a teenager, she made friends with two young men. I don’t have strictest permission to write about them publicly, so we’ll call them G and B. They were a couple, and they became fast friends with my mom, her siblings, and the rest of the family. I don’t remember any details of how they met, or where, or how they became so close: it was always just a simple fact that G and B were part of the family and always had been. They were there before my mom went to college, where she met my dad; they were there for both my parents when my dad got in the car accident that took most of his right arm; they were at my parent’s wedding; and they were part of every major family function for as long as I can remember. Every Christmas Eve my mom’s side of the family comes over and we have too much food, too much to drink, generally make merry nuisances of ourselves, and have a gift exchange.

All of this is important because one of them, B, can now only attend in spirit. We honestly think that he does, but that’s a different story. It’s important here because of another reason.

Over the last weekend, I graduated from Western Washington University and, true to my role as a member of the boomerang generation, have moved back into my parent’s house until I can get my feet under me. Moving is an insane process, especially when you’ve been splitting time between two locations and have acquired detritus in both (I come from a long line of pack rats); after coming back there was literally no floor space left in my room, and half the garage was incapacitated. My first reaction was to tear my room apart and get rid of everything I knew could have a better home elsewhere.

The process is still in motion, but while cleaning I came across something I didn’t remember: a blue metal gift box with a gold ribbon. Inside was a gift from B from years ago, an antique beaded purse with the figure of a man, possibly a soldier, astride a horse. There was a note underneath it. B wrote to me about how, when he was a kid, he enjoyed making beaded jewelry. His grandmother noticed this, and, being the dedicated auction-goer she was, bought the purse and brought it to him. She thought he could take it apart to use the beads. He wrote that he “didn’t have the heart to cut it up.” I am so glad that he didn’t, not because I love the purse (though I do), but because if he had, the note wouldn’t have existed, waiting for me to find it.

In loving memory of B, 1945-2011