On Things
by James O. — Where do things go after we die?
by James O.
As I walked through Value Village on Bloor Street on a rainy afternoon in February, I was astounded by the immensity of stuff. It sat on the dust-lined shelves as us scurrying shoppers sniffed around one aisle of cloudy glassware only to proceed to another of exiled and stained mugs. Suddenly, the novelty of discount shopping became very much informed by the cycles of loss, gain, and loss once again that generate collections like these.
This scene brought me back to a question we all will reflect on at one point in our lives:
“Where do things go after we die?”
It’s a recurring thought I have had for many years, ever since my grandmother died in 2018. Posthumously she gave me a ring. The next time I visited my grandmother's room in my aunt's home, beyond the small statues of saints, some miscellaneous jewellery, and photos, most of her things were gone, as if she had decided to take her champion sweatshirt to the afterlife with her.
In 2020, my family had to move from our apartment because of circumstances beyond our control. My father and I spent a week stuffing close to 20 years of life into black garbage bags that would be placed on the doorstop of a shuttered Salvation Army and disappear into the cycles of loss, gain, and loss once again.
Where do things go after we die?
The question reappeared in my mind as I sat on the dimly lit and crowded 2 Train, going up the West Side of Manhattan. Doris, a family friend who has known me my entire life, had passed away earlier that morning and as the executor, my father had some big responsibilities coming down the probate pipeline.
The subway rocked back and forth and finally the muffled sound of the conductor announced 72nd Street. My father and I got up from our seats and shuffled through the morning commuters to reach the doors, where we followed the streams of people up the stairs and into a sunny morning on the Upper West Side.
Dad was nervous. He fumbled with the keys in Doris’ short hallway.
“We have to be quiet, we can’t let the neighbours or the landlord find out she’s dead. Next thing you know, the neighbours will be calling a friend letting them know there’s a rent controlled apartment available…then the landlord bars the apartment and throws all the stuff out before we’re ready…”
A comically long whisper blurted out of experience, after close to 40 years of living in New York City. He struggled to open the door, locking and unlocking it several times, before finally pushing it open.
As a child, I always loved Doris’ apartment. The living room was painted a pale orange, with indigo furniture atop a long-haired white shag carpet. The walls were adorned with ten foot by six foot abstract oil paintings, Doris’ own creations, that matched perfectly the colour palette of the room. Now as an arbiter of the deceased’s possessions, Doris’s apartment felt very small.
The apartment was exactly as she had left it, following a fall that had caused her to rush to the NYU Langone Emergency Room almost two weeks before. The bed sheets were thrown about and used tissues lined the floors. Unopened mail piled at the end of the bed. Two mugs sat perched on the radiator, filled with the thick gelatinous leftovers of what was at one point a full cup of coffee. The place resembled a vacant crime scene more than the cherished apartment of childhood memories.
Their second bedroom, turned into an office, was impossible to enter. The walls were adorned with tall wooden bookshelves filled with books of all varieties. Small filing cabinets that had once framed a small desk were now piled with tax returns from 10 years ago, unread editions of the New Yorker, and endless iterations of the meaningless bills that seem to appear in all of our mailboxes. Doris was a painter by trade, and the seven foot by four foot paintings that didn’t fit into her already stuffed storage unit lay leaning against the wall.
Doris was dead and that truth enclosed the space. Her husband, Joel, had died almost five years prior and yet something of him remained alive in the closet that held his tweed sportcoats, and on the chair next to their shared bed where his balmoral cap sat perched. Joel was alive in our memories, and in the belongings that he had left behind.
This is not meant to be a sentimental treatise arguing that we should hoard the left-behind belongings of deceased loved ones. Rather, my own participation in the cycles of loss and gain have made me reflect on the absurdity of things and the implications for all of us as the inheritors of stuff and, by extension, memories. Although my father and I love Doris very much, neither of us has the personal capacity, let alone the storage space, to preserve the relics of Doris’ life. In many ways, it is devastating to let go of all of her life’s work, and all of the mementos, photos, clothes, and the earthly antiquities that composed her life.
When I think of my own family, the only possessions that I am custodian of are rings from my great aunt, my mother, and my aforementioned grandmother. From my great-grandparents, there is nothing that remains except a box of old photos hermetically sealed in some dusty drawer in my grandmother's former home. Although we like to imagine that possessions will insulate our names in the memories and thoughts of our descendants or inheritors, no one individual has the capacity to be steward of memories or the attendant to our now transient belongings. The possessions we hold dearest to us will also disappear into the cycles of loss, gain, and loss again. And with that, perhaps the only way to live unfettered by stuff is to let go of the things we’ve lost and their role as place markers on earth of memories we can no longer recall.
Where do things go after we die?
The answer is clear: the trash. Or if we’re lucky, Value Village.