I never understood why, when someone dies, people flock to the scene to claim possession of the trinkets of the deceased. I just don’t get it.
I remember when my grandmother died and four people were fighting for her punch bowl. A fucking punch bowl! When the hell are you ever going to need a punch bowl? Is there a Happy Days-themed prom you’re expecting to have at your house?
“Oh, it’s a family heirloom.” From the old English, “loom”, meaning tool. And heir, of course meaning, the next family member to lay rightful claim to that “tool”. A punch bowl.
I’ve heard the argument that “it’s” something to remember them by. Um, if you need a tool to remember them, then I’m guessing they didn’t mean much to you in life and if that’s the case, why do you want to remember them now? By the way, Walmart sells punch bowls. I don’t know why, but they do.
For many years, following my father’s passing, his brother believed that my dad threw away their mother’s pocket bible. Maybe he did. No one knows. No one. He couldn’t let go of this. Still hasn’t.
Maybe two or three times a year, we’d talk for a few minutes on the phone and no matter what the conversation was about, he’d have to mention it. “Your dad threw away your grandmother’s pocket bible.”
Okay, so what do you want me to do about that? It was always an accusatory tone and it got old very quickly. He was blaming my deceased dad for something he may not have even done. My uncle wanted that pocket bible as if his life wouldn’t be truly complete without it. He’d never find contentment without fulfilling this attachment.
No Santosha without Aparigraha. Just sayin’.
It’s just a book! A very small, mass-manufactured version of the bible by some now-defunct corporate publisher. It’s nothing. God, however anyone wants to define “God”, is NOT in that book. My grandmother is not in that book. It’s just words on cheap paper. He’s clinging to this object as if it’s some kind of talisman.
And then, this happened.
A few weeks back, I was cleaning out our garage and came across a box of old photos from my parents. As I was going through it, I found a pocket bible. On the back, inside cover, was my grandmother’s maiden name and signed by her. “I found it!” I put it in a cinch bag with a note to my uncle and mailed it to the other side of the country.
And … nothing. No call. No message. Two weeks went by. No response whatsoever.
Out of concern and to make sure it arrived, my wife called him. Yep, he got it. He was quick, because he was busy, but said, “That’s not the bible. Bob (my dad) threw away the one I’m talking about.”
Okay then. And that was pretty much the end of the conversation. No thanks for the thought or anything like that. Not that I need thanks or appreciation to validate what I did, but still. You know what I mean. Maybe acknowledgment; I don’t know.
So, I don’t do the anger thing. Maybe I’m weird, but I don’t hold grudges or get angry with things like this. Grudges are heavy, weighing like sandbags on our shoulders. I don’t want to be hunched over when I’m 100.
I do get disappointed though. Hey, I’m human. But, this wasn’t even disappointment for me. It was a realization about my “relationship” with my uncle. There really isn’t one. He doesn’t know me, nor I him, really.
While I don’t misplace value in inanimate objects, like a punch bowl or pocket bible, I do value people and the relationships I have with them. My fathers efforts, hard work, tolerance, wisdom, and guidance he provided on my behalf is what I value. I can never forget that. Possessing his microwave isn’t going to keep him with me. Like, every time I make popcorn, I would feel his presence. No, I sold his microwave to help pay for hospice.
Anyways, the value my uncle places in this book and the negativity associated with its mysterious disappearance, permeated whatever little contact we had. Ugh.
And for that reason, I’m out. Sometimes, you just have to give the microwave away, because its too heavy to keep moving around. Besides, I make my popcorn on the stove top.
Photo by Aaron Burden on Unsplash