My garage is currently hosting multiple ghosts. It is a conjunction of fate that these apparitions overlapped in their visitations or, perhaps, there are no such things as coincidences. This spectral congregation is metaphysically drawn to this small corner of the universe by items that they left on this mortal plane when they departed for parts unknown. Now, they sit in wonder and amusement as their earthly detritus sits in limbo in the anteroom of my house, interested as to what I will make of their stuff, what memories such items will conjure, how many tears they will loose from my ducts.
The bike hasn’t been ridden by its owner for years, he not needing such conveyance in his present form, but as soon as I sit astride it and put force into the pedals, he is back at my side, goofy grin and stoke aplenty. The chair is as rickety as ever, a quirk of its construction, but it easily supports the weight of her passing, carries my grief with an impressive sturdiness. The keyboard was played by a person still living, but the sounds it makes are from a time forever lost, an epoch that might as well have been Pleistocene. Each tchotchke, each photograph, each seemingly innocuous thing carries within it the entirety of a life.
Cohabitating with these ghouls has been intensely unsettling and yet oddly comforting, a connection to a happy past, a link to cherished moments. Haunted though I may be by their presence, I am also pushed to curiosity about my own legacy, not the intangible one dreamt of by politicians and authors and athletes, but the actual things that I will leave behind, how they will impact my heir and remaining kin. I cannot take my possessions with me, but what remains when I die will speak volumes about me, will recall my fancies and foibles, will be the catalyst for their holders to remember the man that I was and tried to be.
As Violet sifts through the mountain of skis that are sure to be left in my wake, will they be a source of annoyance, will she remember my mania fondly or with dismay? I can only hope that holding those planks in her hand will transport her to the many snowy days we spent at each other’s side, will cause her to turn to her own kids and tell our chairlift jokes, recount massive crashes, speak wistfully about the banger pow days during which nothing mattered but being together and having fun. With the benefit of hindsight, these mementos may paint me in a more flattering light than I am otherwise entitled, but maybe they will also unleash dormant traumas.
The skis and bikes and other outdoor gear are obvious testimonials to my adventurous life, as Violet’s father and as just a silly boy. There are other, more subtle parts of my collection that will also be repositories of thoughts. Maybe it will be a picture that is the jumping-off point for Violet’s jaunt down the lane of memory, maybe it will be a pen or a key or a book or watch or razor or something totally unexpected that brings me temporarily back from the dead. Picturing Violet holding a ring or a necklace of mine and being transported to a specific moment is something so intensely visceral that it feels like I am already jumping through portals, traveling through alternate timelines.
One day, my parents – those absolute linchpins of my past, current, and future existence – will not be a phone call or quick visit away, but will require a séance or dream to see again. Already, in my darker and/or contemplative moments, I hold tight to a sweater or a shoe or a medal or some other solid representation of their life and give infinite thanks that I will have these by which to remember them, not as replacements, but reminders. Rather than morbid, or at least not horribly morbid, these episodes are incredibly useful as rejoinders to not waste a moment in Mom and Pops’ presence, to hug them tight, to tell them repeatedly and earnestly how much I love them, just to bask generally in them and their individual and collective love.
Mindful that I still have many more years on this planet, barring any abject idiocy or dumb luck, it is these types of thought exercises that motivate me when parenting and work and life feels too difficult to bear. To contemplate the physical impressions that will remain when I die is to remind myself of the constant need to live up to my own expectations, to be remembered with mirth and respect, to leave this world lighter and brighter and better than when I arrived.