Of course losing a spouse is a tremendous loss. Nobody can argue that.

But after having lost so much, there comes a time when we realize we’re starting to lose their memory, too.

Their face begins to fade. We can’t remember their laugh. We’ve gone a day without really thinking about them.

The captain is drunk and the crew is asleep.

We can’t get off. We can’t go back. We have no choice but to just hold on and wait. For who knows what.

The farther we go through time, the farther behind we’ve left our love, our life.

The day comes when we suddenly realize we can’t see his face anymore when we close our eyes at night. His smile is a blur. He’s fading.

We panic. Because what happens if we let go? What happens when he’s good and truly gone?

We have no future, but now we have no past.

But there are things we can do to help ourselves hold on.
For a little while. For a lifetime.

Make a Memory Bin

Find a box or a bin, about the size of a microwave. Dress it up, or don’t. Label it, or don’t.

Fill it with things. But only things that fit. A shirt. A piece of jewelry. His favourite coffee mug. A golf ball.

Small things that represent something. Things that fit in the palm of a hand that will trigger a bigger memory.

Photos

Printed out – arranged in a photo album. Or not. But photos. Of the big things that won’t fit in the bin.

Make a Playlist

Take a day to find and listen to all of his favourite songs. Record them onto a memory stick. Put it in the bin.

Write or Record

A journal. Stories. Memories.

Not just the good ones. The hard ones, too. 

When one of the kids was in an accident. When you got married. That time you barely spoke for a year. That amazing vacation.

Put the Memory Bin away.

You can always pull it out and reminisce when you need to. But as time goes on, you’ll need to less and less. You’ll be glad you have it. And there’s nothing better than bumping into it when you least expect, and taking an impromptu trip back through those memories.

I have photos of Paul around the house, here and there, under this, behind that. There’s one in the drawer under my coffee stuff. Mostly I just refill the coffee container from the bulk canister. But once in a while, I pull the drawer apart to clean it out, and I find his picture. Like I did this morning. I guess that’s what prompted this post. And when I do bump into these little hidden memories, it feels like he dropped in to say hi.

Talk about your person.

Not in a needy, obsessive way that scares everyone away.

Use their Name.

We often hear widows refer to their ‘late husband.’

I always start with ‘my late husband, Paul.’ And from thereafter, I simply call him Paul.

They say a person dies twice: once when they pass from this earth, and then a second and final time the last time someone speaks their name.

Prepare for the Big Days.

The anniversaries, the birthdays, the special days.

Paul died the week before Christmas. And yet, we don’t have a problem through the holidays.

Birthdays? The Deathday? No biggie. We trudge on through. The kids often gather around Father’s Day.

But our wedding anniversary? A day he and I never paid much mind because we actually got married on a long weekend that we always celebrated with friends and family? A day that now cripples me? Every. Single. Year.

I go away now. I plan to spend my anniversary remembering him. I go someplace he and I enjoyed together. I plan to be alone. And I plan to fall apart.

The amazing thing here is, once we’ve protected the memories, once we’ve put the big ones away for safe keeping, we don’t have to actively remember them anymore.

We don’t forget, but we can let go a little.

And in letting go, we can move forward. Assured and willing, because in the end, we’re on that ship. And though we’ve left them behind, we’ve also made sure that we’ve taken them with us.

And that they’re always right there, whenever we really need to feel them near.

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