An old, no longer properly working blood pressure monitor- the source of all my drama.
My grandmother (whom I lost last year), gave it to me.
“Are all non-working items junk?” I ask myself, reasoning, when the unexpected word “hoarder” pops into my mind.
A little clutter here and there is normal- until it’s not. I notice a burgeoning stack of items (memories attached to each one), building up by the window. “I’d better stop this,” I tell myself, irrationally fighting back tears.
“You’ve already bought a new one,” I remind myself. She wouldn’t mind. “But,” I hear my subconscious saying, “Dad.”
When he became ill, I checked his blood pressure daily. And once God called him home, I continued to use it on myself. This is one of the last things I own that touched him.
Silly, I know, but somehow when I took my own blood pressure readings… My arm- wrapped in the fabric that surrounded his, growing tighter as the monitor did its thing- it felt like a hug from Dad.
Deep down, I suppose that’s the issue- the reason it’s still here. Memories in the form of clutter. “No,” I tell myself, “I felt him here with me every time I took my readings.”
Almost as if on cue, I feel his presence and laugh slightly as my eyes wander about the room. My father liked things neat and tidy (words that if I’m honest, don’t currently describe the state of my bedroom.)
He’d remind me that he’s always here in my mind, my heart, my memories. Like every good father, he’d never leave. He’s here with me- even without the monitor. Love like ours isn’t confined to one thing, place, moment or event. It’s eternal.
“I love you,” I hear him say, pausing in that way of his that I miss so much, before the next sentence full of wit would drop, “now clean your room.”
A smile emerges, as I imagine him smiling back at me, Grandma nodding her head in agreement. I pick up the monitor tenderly and head for the trash. I’ve got cleaning to do.
My grandmother (whom I lost last year), gave it to me.
“Are all non-working items junk?” I ask myself, reasoning, when the unexpected word “hoarder” pops into my mind.
A little clutter here and there is normal- until it’s not. I notice a burgeoning stack of items (memories attached to each one), building up by the window. “I’d better stop this,” I tell myself, irrationally fighting back tears.
“You’ve already bought a new one,” I remind myself. She wouldn’t mind. “But,” I hear my subconscious saying, “Dad.”
When he became ill, I checked his blood pressure daily. And once God called him home, I continued to use it on myself. This is one of the last things I own that touched him.
Silly, I know, but somehow when I took my own blood pressure readings… My arm- wrapped in the fabric that surrounded his, growing tighter as the monitor did its thing- it felt like a hug from Dad.
Deep down, I suppose that’s the issue- the reason it’s still here. Memories in the form of clutter. “No,” I tell myself, “I felt him here with me every time I took my readings.”
Almost as if on cue, I feel his presence and laugh slightly as my eyes wander about the room. My father liked things neat and tidy (words that if I’m honest, don’t currently describe the state of my bedroom.)
He’d remind me that he’s always here in my mind, my heart, my memories. Like every good father, he’d never leave. He’s here with me- even without the monitor. Love like ours isn’t confined to one thing, place, moment or event. It’s eternal.
“I love you,” I hear him say, pausing in that way of his that I miss so much, before the next sentence full of wit would drop, “now clean your room.”
A smile emerges, as I imagine him smiling back at me, Grandma nodding her head in agreement. I pick up the monitor tenderly and head for the trash. I’ve got cleaning to do.
