Riding Shotgun

He who has ears to hear, let him hear. (In the most non-gendered use of the masculine pronoun, of course.)

I'm used to driving.

I've long had this "thing" about control, and driving suits me just fine because, frankly, I trust myself more than I do anyone else, including Him. I have a sense of my vehicle: how wide it is, how it handles, where my margins are, what speed is appropriate, and what kind of space I need around me to move into a new place in a different lane.

I'm a calculating and safe driver. Safe.

So the other day when I said my customary phrase, "Who's driving?" without really meaning it, and He said, "I am," ...well, I was naturally uneasy. He got us on the freeway, and I felt myself tensing up as we sped up. I'm just not used to riding shotgun.

We were whizzing past other vehicles, and it seemed like they were awfully close to me. Too close. I'm not used to that.

"That lane is open," I told Him. I meant for Him to move into it.

"Uh-huh," He said.

"Seems like we're going awfully fast," I said.

"You go pretty fast, too," He said. "It's just because I'm driving, and not you."

I pondered this for a bit. "I guess so," I said. "It just seems dangerous."

"It is dangerous out here," He said. "You have to keep your eyes open. People are thoughtless, reckless. They have a way of flying across each other's lanes and smacking into each other."

I shuddered. "Every time I get in a traffic jam behind a wreck, I think, 'If I'd headed out a little sooner, that could've been me.'"

"Yep," he said, deftly changing lanes as we came up behind someone moving slowly in the fast lane. We sailed on by. Some people are so unaware. Or overly cautious. Or don't know the negotiating rules on the freeway. I forgot to look at the license plate to see if that guy was an out-of-towner who doesn't know how things work around here.

A motorcycle whizzed past us on the left and then cut across right in front of us. Stupid guy. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He was calm and quick, hitting the brake and avoiding what would have been a deadly collision. Certainly for the motorcyclist, and possibly for us as well.

"Whew," I remarked. "I did NOT see that coming! Yikes!" I patted myself on the front of my left shoulder. "My heart is still in stress mode. I'm glad You were driving and not me. I'm not sure I would have managed that as well." I looked back at the freeway ahead. The motorcyclist was vanishing into the distance, clearly heading for disaster with some other driver. "It still feels more scary for me not to be driving, though," I said. "I think I'd rather be behind the wheel."

"It looks different when you're riding shotgun, doesn't it?" He said.

It does.

What's Left

Forty-one weeks and five days after my mom died, I held my dad's hand as he too breathed his last, at the age of 90. I'm not ready to write about those moments yet. It's been just two months and at the same time it seems like an eon.

In the meantime, I am the older child and there are things to take care of. I have realized that bereavement leave is not for taking care of yourself. It's for doing the myriad of things that must be done in the wake of the initial loss: death certificates, back-and-forth dealings with the cremation center, calls to medical, retirement and social security administrators, bank account dealings and alerting attorneys that it's time to work on the trust.

And then there is the task of dealing with the tangible things that are left. I have been struck by what a pitiful pile is left when a person dies: clothing, books, furniture, shoes, files, photo albums, grooming implements, knick-knacks. It all seems so empty without the owner there to inhabit the space. And yet it takes emotional energy as it calls for decision after decision about things that were meaningful to the person you loved so dearly.

As we worked our way through some of my parents' things last Sunday (in so doing, trying to reclaim our dining room for use), it started to look like a thrift store had exploded in our home. And indeed, a thrift store figures largely into our work on all of this.  My husband said to me, "You know, there are probably thousands of dollars going out the door."

He's right.

My brother and I have saved the few things we want. Our households were established and filled long ago, and our tastes differ from those of my parents. Yet there remains a great deal of value left in the things we don't want.

My mom had a way of walking into a shop and going straight for the most expensive thing there. My dad liked certain kinds of toys, some instrumental but mostly electronic. We're figuring out what to do with the tools, printers, laptops, iPad. The accordion went to a young medical student who had always wanted one. The harmonicas are going to a religious bluegrass group. My mom's carved desk got picked up by the neighbor who for a living clears out estate belongings that people's children don't want. A bedroom set went to a community outreach to help a family in poverty. Loads of clothes and bedding have gone to the church thrift shop.

Husband commented that we could sell some things.

"You know," I responded. "I never saw my parents ever sell anything that had belonged to them. Ever. They gave things away if they didn't want them any longer." That's mostly true, I realized later. They did sell their last car to a friend...with my help. But they were unfailingly all about generosity and giving throughout their lives, rather than trying to recoup value for themselves. I'm inclined to do the same.

Husband sees my point; trying to sell the things would be more stressful and time-consuming than simply giving the treasures to those with need and/or interest.

You see, it boils down to this: It's all things. Just things. That's all that's left. They're oddly familiar objects but they aren't what I long for. My heart wants my parents. I miss them so very much.