We spent several hours again at my brother's apartment yesterday and it was difficult enough that we are taking today off from the sad task of clearing out and moving or donating everything. We only have until the end of the month though, so we have to go back tomorrow.
Yesterday, we took a full load of donations to the animal humane society (our second truckload), and brought back his bookshelves to our house. (We have brought back all his shelving, seven wire shelves and six bookshelves. The wire shelves will go into the garage to use for storage and the bookshelves will come into the house. We can always use more bookshelves.) We also dropped off some of his non-perishable food at a small free food box near his neighborhood.
Day before yesterday, my aunt and cousin and my cousin's little son came and helped us load boxes up for donation. Thankfully, they also took my brother's freezer and its contents and some keepsakes for themselves. My friend Grace also came by and we practically begged her to take a couple of fans to replace her defunct fan. My brother had a lot of things that we need to move on to others and I'm grateful to people for taking what they want or can put to good use.
In one of his cabinets, the one where he kept his tools and house paint and such, I found a binder of essays he wrote when he was a student at the community college in the 90s and a box of cards and letters he had received over the years. There was a set of letters, correspondence with a woman he was in love with back then and birthday and Christmas cards going back decades. I found the birthday card Dave and I gave him on his 22nd birthday and every letter I ever wrote him and every postcard I ever sent him from anywhere. I had no idea he had kept any of it, but there it was. I don't know where my brother learned to hide his sensitive side--probably from the same shitty childhood home life I had--or why he could never figure out a way to express it in the intervening decades, but he did. I still struggle with it myself and I've been in therapy on and off since I was nineteen years old, over thirty years. I know holding in his emotions impacted his mental and physical health and I'm sorry I didn't offer more help or more encouragement for him to seek therapy or to advocate for him in healthcare situations. (Of course I tried, but he often rebuffed my efforts or just straight up lied and told me everything was fine.)
It hurts my heart because I feel like I failed him. I never talked to him about the hard stuff. I knew he was hurt by some things but I thought it was a kindness to avoid digging at sensitive subjects. I wanted to be respectful. But was I? I don't know. I try to remind myself that none of that matters now. I can forgive myself and him for all of that. I did the best I could for him and he did the best he could in accepting or not accepting what I offered and that is all there could be.
There is still more, move to give and more to keep. I have three boxes of unused medical supplies and coats to take to an organization that helps provide homeless people with healthcare. I also have three boxes and other assorted things to take to a charity that provides homeless families with shelter.
It hurts to parcel out my brother's things because it feels like I'm losing him all over again, piece by piece. But I'm trying to remember that it's good to share him with the rest of the world and that through his things, he can continue to do some good or to provide someone with something they can enjoy having or using in the future. I try to remember that there is freedom in letting go of things so that maybe by releasing his possessions into the world, we are also helping his spirit move on to its next destination.
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