Giving Away my Father’s Clothes
When Grief, Anger and Guilt Collide
When my father dies, he leaves behind an assortment of items with which my mother cannot part. Mostly, these are objects he created: handmade vases from his glassblowing phase; ceramic bowls and mugs from his pottery period; collections of poetry from his chapbook days; a replica of the Taj Mahal built from plastic pieces so tiny they make Legos look gigantic; papermaché creatures he built with us when we were kids.
Years earlier, as a gift, I had bought my father a subscription to The New York Times Crossword Puzzles. My mother was thrilled: here was a hobby he could dive into that wouldn’t fill their house with more stuff. Within days, he had stopped the Monday puzzles and then the Tuesday ones too, deeming them too easy. Months later, when he could easily solve the challenging Saturday puzzle, he retired from crosswords altogether. He was a man who liked to master and move on.
My father was large with a booming voice to match: well over six feet tall and broad. He had struggled with weight most of his adult life and his size swelled and shrunk depending on whether or not he was able to resist sneaking candy from our Halloween baskets or driving off to Nathan’s for hot dogs when my mother was occupied and wouldn’t notice.
