My Precious

There’s something refreshing about looking around a tidy house where everything has its place. The busy nature of our world means that sometimes, the clutter of life builds up and then you’ll spend a day on the weekend, repacking the pantry or spring cleaning through the home office.

I’m going through cupboards. I’m sorting and making space.  I’m filing paperwork and organising my desktop. In days gone by I could be ruthless with the ‘big cull’. I wish I still had that ability – to brutally bin all that was old. But I don’t anymore and here’s why.

‘One ring to rule them all’. When watching The Lord of the Rings I remember feeling quite revolted and chilled by the passion with which Gollum possessed that famous ring. “My precious”, he would whisper. All aspects of his soul slowly corrupted by his overwhelming need for this single ‘thing’.

I have always held more interest in gathering experiences over material goods. The memories are most important than an outfit that will stretch and fade or a phone that will eventually be replaced.

It is perhaps well known that people struggle to let go of a loved-one’s possessions once they die and it is true for me. I have found myself keeping paperwork from the hospital just because it has my son’s name on it. I had already given away so much of his baby clothes and toys which I crave. So, the toys which remain are now sacrosanct to me. Toys, which will never be played with again but were once favourites of my little boy. I find preschool artwork on butcher’s paper and end up giving it so much meaning, the thought of throwing it away, is as if I am throwing him away. A betrayal.

Once upon a time, I would have taken a photo of said ‘artwork’ and therefore captured all its glory and happy to have a compact digital version of his developmental creativity. But a photo is not the same now that he is gone. He was 3 years old when he made that, he was 5 years old when he gave me that card, he was 4 years old when he found that rock and brought it home.

All of these mini snippets of him are evidence he was here. Things he once held, things I can still hold. A connection by way of ‘things’. These things made him happy. He was growing up to become someone with a childhood full of art and games and toys. He was meant to decide what to do with all of these things as a man, all grown up and moving out.

Having twins meant no hand-me-downs from brother to brother – instead they shared the same wardrobe where everything was fair game. Cam has grown out of the T-shirts he once shared with his brother. There was a time that I would bundle the out-grown shirts and shorts and send them off to my nephews and my friend’s little boys.

But these child-size super-hero shirts cannot go to another little boy. Not now. They are the clothes that he wore in those photos, on those holidays, on those weekends in our backyard. They are the pyjamas that I would snuggle him into at night and see first thing in the morning. These shirts, toys, books, paintings and school scrapbooks are all now … my precious earthly reminders of the childhood he lived.

I bought an ex-demo car year ago when my boys, Cam and Tom, were about 3 or 4 years old. I was used to older second-hand vehicles, so the feeling of a fairly new car was quite a thrill. A few months later I planned to take Cameron and Thomas bushwalking one morning and so we packed ourselves into our new silver car and headed off for our adventure.

At the time the boys were intent on collecting things on such excursions. Usually by way of rocks and sticks. They’d find a decent sized stick or a slightly interesting rock, proudly snatch it up and take it along for the walk. There would always come a time that a newly found stick or rock would grab their eye. They’d look up at me and ask me to carry or pocket their treasures so they could add to their bushwalk collection.

At the end of the walk I would ask the boys to choose only one of their nature prizes before we climbed in for our drive home. This particular day, Thomas kept one of his rocks. As we were driving home, I had the radio on and the window down, cooling down from our hike. I pulled up to a set of traffic lights and glanced back towards the boys. Tom’s car seat was diagonally behind me and so he was the first I saw.

With great determination and effort, there was Thomas carefully scratching his new favourite rock into the window. He was so surprised when I yelled out at him “Tom!!!” He had no clue this was against the rules and I could see he didn’t know what he’d done wrong. Well, believe me - I told him. All the way home, he heard about it.  People in the next suburb over could have heard me - I was furious.

“You’ve scratched the window Thomas Edwin! I can’t fix that. It will be too expensive to fix so now it will always be scratched. You’re not to scratch windows or walls or anything with rocks! Do you understand!”

We arrived at my mum’s house about 5 minutes later and I was still very cross. The boys were not used to me flaring up in such a temper and as I parked the car and turned around I felt all the ‘mother guilt’ pour down on me. Tom was slumped in his seat, staring at the scratched window with big eyes. He might’ve been proud of it before I let loose. He had dropped his rock. And then he quietly looked over at me, “Sorry Mummy, I’m sorry”.  

I remember heaving a big sigh with the realisation I had some serious repair work to do after my parenting meltdown. We sat down and I tried again. This time, I was calm. He agreed he wouldn’t do such a thing again and I apologised for roaring at him. We had a hug and went about our weekend. It became a funny story I would tell other parents about the trials of toddlers.

Over the years, as Tom would look out his car window, those scratches would stare back at him and once or twice he said to me “I’m sorry for scratching the window Mum”. He said that one day when we were coming home from a rehab day at the hospital and he started crying. My heart broke that he remembered that day. That terrible day that I lost my temper over scratches on a new car window.

I was going to start crying too and so I pulled over and went around to sit with him.  I said to him, “Oh honey bun, I’m actually happy these scratches are on your window. It reminds me of all the adventures we’ve had. You didn’t know any better – you were just a very little boy with a rock. I probably did the same things when I was that little. Please don’t cry – that window is special to me like this – I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

I still look back over my shoulder and I see the scratches on the windowpane if the light hits it just right. I can’t imagine those scratches missing from his window. It will break my heart to drive a new car again cause that part of Tom’s presence and history will be gone.

So here I am – My most treasured things are piles of hospital paperwork, toys, small superhero shirts and a scratched car window. I have my collection of Tom’s things and they have their place in my house. But here is the rub. As time goes by, I will have to consider what to do with Cameron’s things.  I struggle to even let these go.

What if something were to happen to Cam? What if I throw this away or give that away and all of a sudden I lose my Cam…? What will I have to hold on to? Some very tricky decisions – because I am elevating Tom’s things onto a pillar as beloved treasures – aren’t Cameron’s things just as precious? I love both of my boys equally. Shouldn’t they be kept with the same care?  Are they less valuable simply because Cam will get more ‘things’ as he lives his life?

The ring that is carried by the hobbits across Middle Earth promised its owner great power but ultimately it brought personal destruction. I wear a necklace that holds the smallest portion of Tom’s ashes. I feel like it will be the last necklace I will ever wear. I’ve grown accustomed to the weight of it around my neck and the smooth silver tear-drop shape sitting on my chest. I’m told I reach for it more than I realise. It is ‘my precious’.  

Most of the time, it does bring me comfort and I can feel that Tom is with me when I play with it now and again. Other times, it brings me worry.  Anxiety at the thought of losing it. Like losing Tom again. If I can’t find it immediately in the morning, a flutter of panic begins and builds until I find it. Moments like these, this necklace does hold power over me and my obsession with keeping it safe is almost ‘Gollum-like’ if I’m honest. A double-edged sword.

“It is a strange fate that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing… such a little thing.” – Boromir

So here’s what I tell myself. Holding onto Tom’s personal things and keeping them safe with me for the rest of my days is ok … as long as it doesn’t become a hoarding obsession that consumes me. Enjoying the comfort my ‘Tom necklace’ is ok … as long as accidentally losing it one day doesn’t devastate me with renewed grief and guilt.

I know these things aren’t Tom. He is gone and his things are here … but they aren’t Tom. This conundrum surrounding the material possessions of my most precious boys is another thing to work on. In the days when I am cleaning up, sorting through and letting go of the old and worn, I’ll have to try to find ways to be reasonable and gentle with myself. My memories, my treasures, my worry …
and my storage.