Day 87: The Things I Kept

If I were to do a blog post about the things Gareth gave me, I'd be writing for days. Gareth was a gift-giver. Little things. Funny things. He was constantly on the lookout for things he thought I'd like: a funny pair of socks, a little stuffed animal to hang from my bag, a fabric pencil case with a dog on it, pajamas with 6 cartoon owls on it and the message "I am really feeling fresh./The sky is very fine for today/even the wild smells so sweet" (he knew how I'd laugh when I read this), a pink fuzzy blanket with a hood and rabbit ears attached to it, a beaded bracelet, a woven leather bracelet, a green and black barrette for my hair, a navy travel blanket to keep me warm when we picnicked at night or while I was on a plane, a toy mini cooper like the real one I had back home (only red), a notebook with old Korean advertisements printed on it...I could go on. And on. And on.

I have these things, of course. My apartment is filled with things Gareth touched. Things Gareth saw and thinking of me, purchased and placed in my hands ("Close your eyes! Ok. Now...hold out your hands...") or left on my bed ("Here, sweetheart. Wear this when you sleep. We will meet again in 5 days!") or hid inside of a small box in my bag ("Surprise! xx G") These are the things I have which remind me of him.

When Gareth died, his mother, father, brother and I went through his apartment and sorted his things. A pile was made of things to take back to New Zealand and things to give away. I felt happy to be able to give his family the stories related to the things they chose- where Gareth purchased them, what was happening that day, certain conversations I remember about him choosing specific items. That shirt was his favorite. We picked those ceramic pieces up at Hwagae Market. He meant to mail that bowl as a wedding gift. He picked out that wooden carved key chain for his dad and for friends back home. I bought that jacket for him as a surprise in Geoje. With every item there was a story.

There were very few things I took home from his apartment. I had so many things already, and found myself saying "No, you take that. Take that with you," when Gareth's mom would ask, "Do you want to take this home with you?" They should have every piece of their son that they could carry and that they wanted. However, when I lifted his pillow to my face and took in that familiar scent, I heard myself say, "Is it ok if I take this?" And it's been that pillow that I've hugged each night since the night I came back to Hayang.

His shoes were buried the weekend before last, along with one of the bracelets he wore almost daily. (See last post.) When someone dies, there is a lot of letting go of their things. The things they had. The things they wore. Dishes they ate from. Glasses they drank from. The bed they slept on. The books they read. The toothbrush they used before leaving their place for the last time. Their keys. Their car. Their supply of paper towels and toilet paper in the storage cabinet. Their laundry hanging on the line. The dirty clothes in the basket. Trinkets. Receipts. Recycling to go out. The junk drawer that everyone has. The almost empty bottle of cologne. The sheets on the bed. The drinks in the fridge. Let go. Toss out. Give away. Let go. And let go. And let go.

A few things we keep.


I'd like to shift, here, and write directly to Gareth. Feel free to read. You are not intruding.

Dear Gareth,

This morning I finally pulled the navy t-shirt, the one that smelled so much of you weeks ago and has since lost its scent, from your pillow and tossed it in the wash. I peeled off the shirt and removed your navy pillow case and could see the marks of your sweat. Hot summer nights in Korea. Perhaps a bad dream or two. Your pillow was stained with nights of restless sleeping.

It was also a bit moldy and I was charged with wondering if I'd cover it back up again with the pillow case and shirt (which are currently on the line to dry) or if I'm ready to let go of it. The shirt no longer smells of you, and in the past few nights I've fallen asleep holding your pillow and woken up in the morning holding my new dog. Perhaps I can let it go.

I have two other shirts of yours that I took from your apartment: a grey one that you purchased at UniQlo and the one with the ship schematics on it. You wore that grey shirt a lot and if I really hold it to my face and breathe in, there is still a faint scent of you.

All of your watches went home with your parents. Your mom wears the one she and I went in on as a Christmas present for you the year before last. You had so many watches. I meant to find a little box for you to store them in, but never did. You liked to line them up on your desk sometimes and talk about each one. Watches made your mind slow down and feel good. I will always like watches because of that.

I have the wooden bracelet you wore often. And the leather cuff bracelet you bought when we were walking around the streets of Busan at night. I loved, loved, loved that bracelet and you were so thrilled to have something that you considered so unique and different.

 

  

I moved the little silver piece over and now I can make it small enough for me to wear, which I do each time I'm wearing something brown.  I like remembering the specific place we were and the look on your face when you bought this. It makes me happy and it makes me feel connected to you.

In another trip to Busan, we split off for a bit to do some Christmas shopping for each other. 

I headed underground and found a man selling gifts and antiques. He had been to New Zealand several times and we sat down and enjoyed oranges while he told me of his travels there and I told him about us.

 

I picked up these odd little hand massagers because I thought they'd be something you'd find interesting. We ended up putting them on a shelf in the apartment in Hadong and they stayed with me when you moved, even though they were a gift for you. I have them on my bookshelf in my bedroom now. 

Remember when we went to Hwagae Market and you found that brass Buddha head with the 4 faces on it? There was a man selling brass pieces on the side of the road just as you enter the marketplace and we stopped to have a look. I took a photo of that moment, and I've always thought you are so strikingly handsome in this particular photo.

 

I remember that you almost didn't join me. We woke up that morning and you had a frustrating experience with your computer that left you in kind of a funk. It was one of those moments where you weren't really quite yourself, and what I learned about myself from being with you is that I am truly a person who is able to take care of myself at the risk of upsetting someone I love. "I'm going on an adventure!" I announced that morning. Do you remember? "I'd love for you to go with me, but if you're not feeling up to it, feel free to stay here. I'll be back in a couple of hours. I'd like to check out Hwagae Market." I learned in that moment, and several others with you, that I am no longer the person who shuts down and gets paralyzed by someone else's dysfunction. And I mean that lovingly. In that moment, you were not functioning properly. And I loved you. But I wasn't going to put a stop to my desire to experience joy and sit in an apartment to watch you become increasingly frustrated with yourself and your computer. I look back on that and I'm grateful to you for showing me that I have become the person I've always wanted to be- someone who can deeply love others, but not at the expense of my own well-being. You showed me that.


In the market, you were drawn to those faces- the 4 faces, and it struck me (without me saying so) that you had something in common with this piece. The strikingly different moods of each side. A small turn to the left and the face goes from overjoyed to despair. That was part of you, Gareth. These faces remind me of that day, and of how you decided to join me as I was about to head out the door. I watched your intensity dissipate and your face eventually soften on the 25 minute ride there. I watched the softness return. And then the joy. I watched you shift and was ready when you came back to me. To us. To the world.

I have this piece on my bookshelf, as well. It sits atop the wooden box that my friend Chris made me last year. I have it turned so the really happy face- the mouth open face- is what I see. I like to remember you happy.

Something else I have are the little mask magnets you picked up from the mask museum in Namhae. Remember that? We just happened to pass it as we made our way off the island and we pulled over to check it out.

There was something strange about that parking lot. What was it? Loud cicadas? I think that was it. And the museum was about to close. We had perhaps 15 minutes to run through it, which we did. At the counter/gift shop before we left you picked up a few things: a mask on a string for yourself to wear, one for sister Soon, (perhaps I few others for gifts?), and a pair of magnet masks. Those went on your fridge and remained there until the Tuesday before you died when you moved to another apartment. I found them in your desk drawer. You must have stashed them there for the move and never gotten around to putting them out. You only spent 3 nights in the new place before you had your accident.

 

I also brought your Kiwi magnet back home with me. All three magnets are on my ridiculously small refrigerator. The mask ones are next to a laminated collage of photos of us.

Finally, I have our dinosaurs. You know- the ones that sat on my kitchen table and we played with like two kids while eating breakfast together. We named them, but I can't for the life of me remember the names. You brought the yellow one with you and the green and red one stayed with me.

I don't have a kitchen table at my new place, so they sit on the base of a white lamp which sits atop my microwave which is on top of my tiny refrigerator. I'm telling you, my new place is small. It's not the 3-bedroom, 2-bath, full kitchen that we enjoyed in Hadong. Although it's not your tiny one-room in Gyeongju, either. Remember that? Holy heck. You wanted more space.

So those are the few things I kept of yours, babe. Sometimes I think back to specific things and panic that I don't have them- the rust sweater, for example- but I realize the real connection is not in things at all. The real connection is in stories. In memories. In feelings. And I have those. I always will.

I'm sick with grief again, Gareth. It lost its intensity for a bit there, and then it came back. I just miss you. I really, really do. And I'm in shock that you're gone. And even bigger than that, I'm faced with the ugly truth that there was probably no narrative that would end in you getting better and us living out the rest of our years, long years, in one another's company. This is why my letting go of you in January was so very, very hard. Because I didn't want to. And I didn't want to believe that you were not accepting help. But you weren't. And you didn't. And now you can't.

I can live without you. I can move on. I know this. I just don't want to. What I want is not possible in so many ways, and most likely would not have been possible even if you were still alive. And that's layers and layers of sadness for me, babe. Because I know how much you loved me. How angry you were at yourself. I can forgive you. And most days I think I have. But I have a real hard time forgiving the Universe for giving me something so beautiful, so wonderful, so incredibly spirit-feeding, and giving me along with it the reality of a flaw so deep that everything would be snatched away in an instant.

I have no idea how this pain will soften. I feel it so deeply (we both felt things so deeply) that I can't imagine it will end. And I can't see a way out. The only way out is through. The only way out is through. I repeat that to myself again and again. The only way out is through.



I wish you could have seen that.