Objects that Help us Remember

One of the tough parts about losing a child is the lack of physical mementos of their life.

It is easy to take stock of what I have that reminds me of Zachary:

• A blanket
• One sleeper
• The bear the hospital gave my husband and I
• His newborn identification bracelet
• One unfinished album of photographs
• A velvet blue box containing the urn of my son’s ashes
• The cards and few gifts that we received at the memorial

This collection seems small but I know very well that it is more than some people have. For some there are no objects that remind them of their child. This may be especially true for those who have an early miscarriage.

I’m a collector at heart – not of the expected sort of things like stamps or records or coins. As a child I plucked rocks from beaches and forest paths; that was my most ‘normal’ collection. In university I collected party confetti which I strung together into wearable art. Now I collect wood, both natural pieces and manufactured cuts and scraps. I use them for my artwork in “The Quiet Rebuild.”

When both my husband’s maternal and paternal grandmother’s died, women who meant the world to me, I was given random items that belonged to them; small collections. A vase. Tea cups. Old picture frames. A ring. When I helped clean out my husband’s maternal grandmother’s home, I took an old typewriter and stained baking tins. Some family member’s did not understand this act and politely refrained from packing a box for themselves. I understand their perspective.

Yet for me, especially as a visual person, these objects hold so much meaning. Not only do I think of their original owner when I look at them, but they hold a great deal of sentiment for me in knowing that these objects were owned, touched, used, even cherished by that person.

Maybe their fingerprints still remain.

The old piano we welcomed as the house was emptied after grandma died smelt of a musky basement but every time I sit on the bench with my children and touch the chipped keys I remember Grandma. I can smell her house. While these things make my heart ache and I long to hear her call me Alexa just one more time (which she did since the first time we met because of failed hearing), I love that I am cued to reflect on the beautiful woman who graced my life.

I wish I had more to remember Zachary by. This must be a wish of every parent who longs for their child.

As a collector, my secret mission as the years go by has been to create memories for Zachary. These things will never replace my son, but when I look at them now my mind takes me back to the moments we shared. The bear from the hospital touched his skin. We never washed it. Sometimes I pick it up and breathe in its smell deeply and pretend that everything was different.

I’m not materialistic but objects hold meaning for me. They help me remember and for that I am very thankful.