The Gift Beyond Goodbye
My wife’s mother bought her a pair of jean shorts this week. We were planning to strike off to see a concert, with forgotten youthful abandon, until adulthood sullied our plans. That is a tale unworthy of telling. But the good news? My wife had wanted a new pair of jean shorts to wear to the show, and, before cancelling, my wife’s mother bought her a pair of jean shorts.
Of course, my wife’s mother has bought my wife many things over the years. A favorite birthday present was no present at all, in the singular sense. Rather it was a day together—out shopping and trying on and comparing and, yes, buying. It was my nightmare, but that was fine—it was not my mother, and it wasn’t my birthday.
On this occasion, with our baby in tow, I was along for the ride, but it was my mother-in-law who did the buying. She was not at the dilapidated mall with us; she was not exclaiming in the dressing room, nor offering advice on sizing up or down or questioning “do you think that comes in black?” No, she couldn’t make it to the mall that day, for she has been dead for six years.
Even so, my wife’s mother bought her a pair of jean shorts this week.
When my wife lost her mother suddenly, she also lost her best friend. It was her mentor and her shopping pal; her confidant and her own dear patient. In some ways she lost a bit of herself, as we all do when we store up shared memories in another—memories that are a partnership of unified experiences, hopes, and dreams. Then the person shuffles off mortal coil, and takes their end of the deal with them. On that day six years ago, my wife lost a lot in losing her mom.
What she didn’t lose was her mother’s purse. Slowly, possessions were scoured, some saved, some given away, some discarded with as much ceremony as possible for scarves or coats or slippers delicately placed in one bin or another. The purse she wore on the day of her death contained the out-of-bounds regularities of most purses, I would know by imagining only. There are certain boundaries one does not test. But for the sole daughter remembering her mother, well, it was a commandment-worthy honor to sift through the contents of this transporter of precious things up until the very end. The bag was matrimonial, for it was death that parted it from its owner.
Among the contents were a few Dillard’s gift cards. At the urging of her father, my wife took these and tucked them away. Her own mother had gotten these cards upon making store returns and had used them for purchases. These cards are older than my eldest son. One said “Happy Birthday” on it. My wife’s birthday is two weeks away.
And then my wife and I decided to go to a concert, to strike off, with forgotten youthful abandon. My wife had wanted jean shorts.
When we got to the register with a winning pair, the size down for which I had lobbied, recalling a bit more of my own youthful abandon, she pulled out the old gift cards. It was time, she had decided. We all have to at some point.
She set the over-under for the balance at $9—“Every little bit helps,” my wife said to no one in particular . . . or maybe very much to someone in particular.
The over hit. That tends to be the case when it comes to love. It exceeds expectations; it bridges the gap; it seals the deal; it raises the ships. It also, on this day, covered a pair of jean shorts to the dollar.
We say goodbye and seek closure, but perhaps preemptively, for the ones that leave seldom actually depart. How could they when we hold the other half of a myriad of shared memories? They pop up at holidays and in the eyes and smiles of our children. They pass down their sayings and worn bibles and even more worn photos. They jaunt in unannounced with certain scents: perfumes or baked bread or sunscreen. They dance in like the seasons, forever coming and going—helping to make a way for us, while readying to show us, ourselves, the way to say goodbye properly: by not truly saying it at all.
And every once in a while, they swoop in and buy us jean shorts.