My two oldest children lived together for the last year. From the first of September 2014, until the day he died, Lucas and Grace shared an apartment. Grace was in massage therapy school and Lucas was working part time and taking night classes at Columbia College. Grace graduated her program in May and was preparing to move to Kansas City in June to begin her new job. Lucas was going to stay in the apartment through the end of the lease and then find another place and another roommate. It seemed we had all the plans in place for our two oldest children to continue moving into adulthood.
But plans were blown to smithereens on June 2, when Lucas died. I never stepped foot in the apartment again, and neither did Grace, until the day we packed up the apartment and moved EVERYTHING to Kansas City.
Thankfully, neither Grace nor I had to box and bag up the apartment. Other family and friends took on that unbearably difficult task. Grace stayed with me in Kansas City, along with our other two children, returning the weekend after Lucas’ memorial service to make the move to KC.
By the time I made it back to Columbia, dear friends and family had already loaded the moving trailer with all the contents of the apartment, plus the contents of a storage unit. I had no idea, really, what was in the trailer. These same dear friends and family drove the trailer to KC and unloaded everything into Grace’s future townhome. House and garage were full of more furniture, boxes, and bags then I could remember.
Somewhere in the midst of those boxes and bags were all of Lucas’ material possessions.
I did not want to open anything.
I wandered, mostly aimlessly, between townhome and garage, thinking I should do something, but being unable to. Three of Lucas’ best friends continued to help move furniture in place. I was overwhelmed by the love and support of these young men. They had dedicated their weekend to helping move Grace to Kansas City. They did it because they loved Lucas. And because they loved us.
That was one of Lucas’ defining characteristics: he ALWAYS brought his friends home to us. To eat with us. To hang out with his siblings. To be loved by us. To become part of our family.
And so, through this minefield of memories, I tiptoed, minus my Lucas, but plus three surrogate sons, delivered to me by my oldest, generously loving boy.
Furniture settled in place (sort of), boxes crowded countertops and corners, and bags gathered in piles. I wandered into the front bedroom where my daughter and the young men had gathered. They were opening some bags. Inside the bags were all of Lucas’ clothes.
My insides heaved. I buckled and began to weep.
Lucas’ clothes were here, but he was not. Lucas’ clothes were here because he didn’t need them anymore.
“Too soon, too soon, too soon…” I muttered as liquid pain trickled down my cheeks. Lee, Lucas’ dearest friend, placed his hand on my shoulder and began to cry too. “It’s so hard,” he said, “because I have a memory of Lucas wearing pretty much everything they pull out of the bags.”
I asked my daughter to stop, but she said, “Please mom, let me go thru the bags. It makes me feel better to touch his things.” I understood. We all grieve and find comfort differently. As Lee and I walked out of the room, Grace asked if I wanted anything specific from Lucas’ clothing. I named the four things I wanted, and Grace promised to bring them to me. She continued to sort his possessions, setting aside those items she wanted to keep, and making other piles of things she thought Seth and Mary might want. I couldn’t watch, this sorting and distribution of the tangible evidence of my son’s life.
When Grace came back to our house that night, she brought me a bag. “Hi mom, here are Lucas’ things you asked for.” My dear, sweet, beautiful daughter, who was brave enough to bring me the requested items. I hugged and kissed her, then carried the bag up into our bedroom and dropped it on the floor in the corner nearest my bed.
Where it sat, untouched, for the next month.
This past weekend I mustered up enough courage to open the bag. Out flooded so many memories, contained in so few items.
A red blazer with gold buttons. Lucas wore it to high school graduation. A day
of celebration. A milestone in my son’s life. A window of light and joy illuminating a year that had produced much pain, separation, and darkness in our family’s life.
Snakeskin ankle boots. Boots that Lucas sported, more often than not, whenever he would come over for dinner. Boots that reflected Lucas’ personality. Unconventional, unique, bold. Lucas and his boots…making a statement everywhere they went.
A wool toggle button sweater. It was just one of many sweaters Lucas owned and wore. Lucas almost always dressed in layers. That, too, reflected his personality. He was a boy of many thoughts and feelings, and some were hidden deep under other more visible emotions.
Black velvet tassel loafers. Soft and comforting. Just like my gentle, loving son. The shoes were my gift to Lucas this past Christmas. And they were the shoes he had on the last time I saw him. The shoes he wore when I didn’t know I was telling him goodbye for the final time.
I pulled on the sweater, buttoned it up, and took a deep breath. I could still smell my son. I slipped on the snakeskin boots and took a few steps around my bedroom. Wearing Lucas on the outside, trying to absorb him on the inside. I sat down on my bed and drew my fingers over the red blazer. Then I picked up the tassel loafers and stroked them gently, imagining the feel of my son’s cheek instead.
How can four items possibly represent the sum total of who my son was? They can’t. They are but a small reflection of Lucas, of the tangible and intangible effects that he left in this world he no longer inhabits.
As I continue to unpack Lucas, I just may choose to do so wearing his blazer and velvet tassel loafers.
nitabrooks 