The Essence of Things

We were arguing again. It was the same song and dance that we did at least once a year for the past five years. Nothing ever changed. We went in circles, rehashing every statement and revisiting every debate we’d ever had.

“You don’t need these things!” Evan’s voice rose, and he shook a handful of papers towards me. 

Those particular papers were a mixture: letters, old school assignments, brochures from events I’d gone to. Evan repeated what most everyone thought—that I didn’t need the things I carefully saved over the years. 

Only I did.

“I do,” I replied calmly, with a small nod. “I do need them. I know you don’t understand, but they’re important to me.” I reached for the papers dangling precariously from his fingers. 

He tossed them to the floor, the sheets scattering about at our feet. The carpet here was thin, the back and forth of our steps each day having worn down the fibers. 

“Am I?” he asked then, his arms hanging limp at his sides, shoulders curved. His anger was set aside for the moment, replaced with an unfamiliar sadness. “Am I important to you? Because I can’t keep living like this.” He attempted to spread his arms out wide to gesture at the room, but the knuckles of his left hand banged against the shelves there, knocking a stack of magazines to the ground. His gaze now held a certain desperation.

I tried to see the room from his perspective. 

It wasn’t messy, per se. I strove to keep things organized, separated into meaningful groups. Of course, not every item grouped neatly…I couldn’t help that. 

Two paths separated the room. The one we stood on crossed straight through the center of the space, from one doorway to the other. The other circled the wall, going all the way around the room. That was part of my organization, you see. I could fill the room, but still access everything I needed. 

There were large shelving units, too, which I had bought online and had shipped right to my door when I first moved in. It wasn’t as though my belongings were stacked in haphazard piles. I wasn’t a contender for that “Extreme Hoarders” show, if that’s what you’re thinking. It wasn’t like that at all.

I just…owned some things. A lot of things.

But they were meaningful things. Every item held immense value. A priceless value, really, to me. Like that bookcase filled with books signed by their authors. And next to the bookcase was the stack of folding chairs I’d gotten from the church that closed down two years ago when they could no longer afford the mortgage on their church building. Of course there were the toys—those had gotten a bit out of control, I will admit. But when I was at a thrift store or a garage sale…how could I walk past the toys, so loved and worn, and not buy one for my collection? So now they spilled out of the open toy chest, and overfilled the net hammock I got so they could take up wall space rather than floor space, and also sometimes when I hadn’t tidied up they could be found in little corners throughout the room, set there distractedly when I’d been busy with something else.

I really tried to see things from Evan’s eyes, but I just couldn’t shake off the sentiment that my belongings carried. And truly, it wasn’t so bad. We lived in a one-bedroom apartment, after all. Space was limited. 

I mean, imagine the possibility if I had a three-bedroom house with a two-car garage, and maybe an office, or a den, or a basement! An attic? A shed in the backyard! 

But I digress.

I reached out for Evan, but he pulled away. He shrunk further into himself, becoming small. “You’ll never change.” His words were only a whisper but they carried the weight of bricks. 

“You’re not supposed to change me,” I insisted, but my voice was weak. His pained gaze swept over me, from my feet up to my face. During previous fights, he had occasionally cried. Great streaming tears had poured down his face, his eyes red and his voice hoarse. But not today. Today, his eyes were dry.

“You’re not supposed to value your belongings more than your partner.” I didn’t recognize the cold voice that came from him. It sounded detached, as if it belonged to some other being and not my Evan at all.

His footsteps thudded away from me. I stood frozen amidst my belongings. He opened the door to our bedroom with such force that it banged against the wall, dislodging a painting from its thin shelf. It toppled forward, landing on a pile of empty cereal boxes I’d taken from various friends’ houses. The pile of boxes collapsed onto the mound of quilts on the floor, which were usually folded up nicely in a bin but just yesterday I had taken them out to admire the stitching and fabric. 

I pursed my lips and eyed the bedroom doorway. Evan moved around in there, opening and closing drawers, slamming the closet door. My pulse quickened. 

He wasn’t—

He couldn’t—

Was he packing?

Quick steps hurried me into the bedroom. A large plastic bag lay on the bed. You know, the kind used for lining kitchen trash bins—thin and white with a reddish drawstring. I watched in horror as Evan stuffed his things into the bag, handfuls at a time. An assortment of shirts. His toothbrush. Those three ties that rotated his wardrobe: blue, green, and black. The gray swim trunks I bought him last summer. His collection of boots: hiking, rain, and work. It wasn’t until he threw his pillow in that I spoke.

“You’re leaving?” I asked, even though the answer was obvious. He pulled the drawstring tight and tied it in a single knot. Staring down at the bag, he let out a heavy sigh.

“I can’t stay,” he replied, his voice tight.

“But—”

He lifted a hand to stop me. Closed his eyes. “I love you, Mae, but I can’t do this anymore.” Without even looking at me, he hauled the trash bag of his belongings out the front door.

Disbelief pounded in my chest where my heart should be.

Confusion and heartache fought for priority inside my brain. We’d had this same conversation time and again for five years…what made today different? Why did this argument end with Evan leaving rather than fizzling out around dinnertime as it usually did?

I sank to the floor in increments, my knees bending like tulip stalks during a heavy rainstorm—slowly and with great sorrow.

Evan was gone. I was alone.

And yet…not.

The bedspread, a faded purple with floral lace trim, whispered comfort. I pressed my hand against the soft fabric, worn from time and a multitude of washes. It responded with warm reassurance. I would never be alone, not while I had my things. 

Everyone knows that objects can hold sentimental value. Some people have a hard time letting go of certain belongings because they feel a sense of nostalgia or emotional connection to them. But here’s something I bet you don’t know—things carry a lot more than nostalgia. 

In fact, they carry the spirits of their former owners. Well, a part of their spirit. Like a tiny seed of their soul, tucked neatly into the molecules of their belongings. The essence of who that person is. Or was.

Some individuals are more aware of this than others. They may not feel the spirit exactly, but they might feel the pull of the object, the inherent importance of it. It feels too painful to throw away. And so they hold onto it, packing it in a box during every move, though it would be simpler to just let go.

Me, though?

I could hear the spirits. I could feel them. Not physically, exactly. But I could feel the essence of the person who owned the object. Some items were slimy, oily, and I just knew that their previous owners were untrustworthy. Other items were warm and bright, and felt like kindness. Some felt cold, others gave me a prickling sensation like fear. Every one was unique. 

I pulled the blanket off the bed, squeezing it in a brief hug before wrapping it around my body. It offered more than simple warmth and a feeling of safety, for my great-grandmother had sewn together this bedspread over 100 years ago. I had family here with me. 

Her essence was love and comfort, a tender light to brighten my aching heart. Evan had only just left, and already I missed him desperately. How could I live without him here with me? Five years may not seem so long, but I met him the summer after graduating high school. I had spent my entire early adulthood with him. Now, at almost twenty-three years old, was I to find love again? I couldn’t imagine it.

I always believed that destiny brought Evan and I together. We met at the thrift store in my hometown where I worked. He brought in a few boxes of books to donate, and we’d bonded over our similar interest in true crime stories. On our third date, I gave him a tin of homemade peanut butter cookies, as he’d said they were his favorite. A month later, while at his house, I found that empty tin sitting on his nightstand.

“You still have this?” I asked, holding it up curiously.

He smiled sheepishly and replied, “I like it. It reminds me of you.”

That’s when I knew Evan and I were meant to be together. Though he didn’t have the same connection to objects as I did, I was certain he felt something. Finally, I’d found someone who would understand my need to hold on to everything.

Or that is what I’d thought.

I stared down at my lap, covered in my great-grandmother’s bedspread, and tried not to cry. My nose pinched and my vision burred as I fought back tears. 

Then I had an idea.

The blanket fell away as I rose, sniffling and wiping an arm over my eyes. I scanned the bedroom for an empty box. A shoe box sitting atop the dresser was only half-filled with gardening tools, so I dumped them out—gently—and made a mental note to find them a new home later.

Box in hand, I slid open the closet. Empty hangers stared back at me from the left side where Evan’s clothes once hung. Brushing off the aching squeeze in my heart, I ran my fingers over the clothing that remained. 

Aha! The navy blue sweater he’d stopped wearing a year ago when a hole ripped the sleeve. With a smile, I tucked it into my box and moved to the nightstand. Opening the drawer, I pulled out the tin of lip balm that Evan used during the winter months. I went to the bathroom next, stopping at the door with one hand on my hip to think. He’d taken his toothbrush, but… 

Shaving cream. And his razor. 

Into the box they went.

In the kitchen, I found his favorite coffee mug, purple and over-sized. All around the apartment I went, searching for his forgotten belongings. When I was finished, the box was almost full, and I returned to my bedroom. I settled on the bed, legs crossed, with the box in my lap. One by one, I pulled out each item and laid them carefully on the bed in a wide circle all around me. They felt unmistakably like Evan.

He was serious, but kind. His belongings carried an essence of loose comfort, like a flannel blanket on an autumn evening. They were a whisper of solid ground, steadfast and reliable, like he had always been.

Evan’s sweater was the last item, and I spread it out on my pillow, running my hand across the soft fabric. With a gentle smile on my face, I slowly laid down, resting my head on the sweater. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. I was surrounded by his things, the essence of his being, with little pieces of his spirit all around me.

Evan was not truly gone.

The End