Good grief

If you didn’t know which lives have passed, you’d think they’re all still alive.

Puppy would have lived out his ancient age in a glass case above my bed. Protected from dust, he’d be able to look over me, remain my protector.

I’d have dry cleaned Puppy and removed his stains. He’d sit like a king, and I’d sleep well knowing he’s safe, happy. I might have even put Pepper (wife) and Spot (son) in the case with him so he’d be surrounded by immediate family, and I’d be able to wish them all a good night.

The thing is, Puppy wasn’t even mine. He was a hand-me-down toy to my older sister, who, luckily for me, never took a liking to animals (she had a pet parakeet named Ziggy who died in the middle of the night from what can only be presumed was from a heart attack). Puppy had matted fur and faded spots. His left paw’s stitching was looser than his right’s. One eye was chipped and the other melted in the dryer.

Yet I imprinted on him, and he on me. We became soulmates, formed a blood bond: Touch Puppy and die. (Still trying to work through those emotions.) He won the Oldie But Goodie award at show-and-tell in elementary school. He was a gentle soul — loving, understanding — and I a soul needing to be seen.

But I lost Puppy when I was ten. My family was driving back from a weekend away in the Poconos. In bumper to bumper traffic, my sisters and I executed a fire drill — we opened the doors, ran around the Toyota Sequoia, jumped back in. Squealing, laughing, asking, Mom, can we do it again?

Puppy must have fallen out.

I didn’t notice until three hours later when we arrived home, and Puppy didn’t.

I remember the weight of my loss. I remember my dad asking my mom why I was crying. I remember him saying he'd drive back and search the highway, but I remember his offer feeling empty. I remember blaming the car behind us. Wouldn’t the people inside have seen the fall? Why didn’t they perform their own version of a fire drill, jump out, knock on our window, save a life?

I failed at keeping Puppy safe and felt I should suffer for my lapse in judgment. I wanted my dad to drive back to find him, but I took responsibility for letting Puppy out of my sight.

Plus, a six hour round trip excursion, I knew, was a lot to ask for for stuffed animal roadkill.

I honor the people I love and have lost by placing their memories on the wall. Instead of individual glass cases, I thrift items once used and give them new life, a type of memory-meets-memory, breathed anew (and, of course, for the price and quality). Wooden picture frames, carefully inspected and hand chosen, house photographs of my grandmas, Jack’s abuela, my uncle. The Wall of Fame, as I call it, where if you didn’t know which lives have passed, you’d think they’re all still alive.

Speaking of life and death, Ken, my grandpa, has a couple photos on the wall, one with my grandma who passed away five years ago, and one with his son, my uncle, who died last March. Ken just turned 77, and he recently got engaged. I drove up to South Carolina a few weeks ago to celebrate.

I know I haven’t confronted my gram’s death. I know I should see a therapist to talk about it. She’s not gone, I tell myself, we just haven’t spoken. But after a 5.5 hour drive from Tampa to Hilton Head, after hugging my grandpa, after stepping foot into what used to be their home, I couldn’t shield the weight of her ghost.

Ken is surrounded by a community who relies on his strength; a neighbor called him mid-afternoon to ask him to pull her fridge away from the wall to loosen a kinked water line. At his engagement party, which was intimate, lively, and loving, it’s clear his friends rely on his taste, wit, and humor — and I swear the host of his engagement party was flirting with him.

Do you think about Grammy every day? I asked him while on a nature walk looking for gators. 

I can’t, he said.

So I don’t.

                                                                           ***

I have my great grandma's China cabinet in my apartment, filled with heirloom plates and gifted glassware. It sits in the dining room with its curved glass and intricate woodwork, adding history and character to what one friend calls the walk by room.

I recently added a pair of etched liqueur glasses from Life’s Treasures (my favorite thrift store; two for $1.79) after their potential caught my eye. I brought them home, soaked them in soapy water, hand dried them until they shined. Thinking, Where have these glasses been? What stories have these glasses heard while friends sat around the table, sipping their contents?

Nothing is a ritual, and yet everything is. I relish in putting the dishes away: turning the key to unlatch the cabinet door to create space on the shelf to place my finds inside. The routine a compilation of my grandma’s presence, a physical connection to my ancestors, an opportunity for new memories to be made from old.

And every time I open the hutch with delicacy and grace — despite it being a way too big of a display for a stuffed animal —

I think of the life I wish I could’ve given Puppy.