Collection of a Young Life

Another year had come and gone. I sobbed as I looked around the empty room. The bright pink room that was once filled to the brim with toys, books, and clothes, a perfect preservation of a 7 year old’s life, now blankly stared back at me. I turned to the corner of the room, where a bulging trash bag lay. I didn’t need to actually look, and I really couldn’t, with my vision blurred by the fat teardrops I hadn’t let fall the whole year. Yet I could imagine the contents of the trash bag: the fidget Hello Kitty toy that squished when you closed your hand around it; the assortment of colored gel pens in a sequined pencil holder; the bookmark she carefully made me at school. Looking at her roomany other day of the year would cause a fleeting, agonizing feeling that I could turn off as quickly as it came. Over the years, I had become pretty skilled at burying my feelings deep down, completing the reverse mining process of taking my memories from diamonds to pushing them back into rock, preserving them for later. But today, the feeling stayed, piercing into my chest with an enduring pain, one I deserved. I wanted to transfer this piercing pain to the person I thought warranted it the most now: my husband, for packing up all our daughter’s items like they were common trash. 

*******

Leading up to Christmas, she always used to make wish lists of all the toys she just needed. Of course, the list often poured over the page she was allotted, so I bargained with her to pare the list down so she could get her most wished-for toys under the tree. 

That year, I put off shopping until the last minute. I always took Christmas Eve off so I could spend the day making tamales with my mom. So, I made a mental note to shop that morning before heading to my parents. She had bothered me for days, clenching her list in her tiny fist every day. On the last day, she ran up to me and reminded me that all of the miniature purses for her collectible dolls would be gone if I waited until the last minute. She had seen one at her favorite store, so I had to go buy it. Looking up momentarily from my phone, annoyed she had cut into my social media hour, I shushed her and told her I already knew. I would make sure to go to the store as soon as she stopped reminding me. But of course, I completely forgot to make time for that shopping trip that fateful morning as I rushed out the door. My mind was a jumble as I gathered all the tamale ingredients, my pressure cooker, my utensils, and my mandil, as I would most definitely need to keep my clothes clean for the various Christmas parties after we were done cooking. 

The rest of the day, or rather days, passed by in a festively-induced blur, as it usually does every Christmas season. My mom and I rushed through the preparing and cooking of 4 dozen tamales, then we promptly opened all their presents so we could get to the next 2 grandparents’ houses. After all the parties and overnight stays, we finally made our way home to open our little family presents. It was now the 26th of December, and with a guilty pang, I finally remembered that I had forgotten to go to my daughter’s favorite store to get her last wished for item: the miniature purses. I remember the guilt lasted in that moment for only a second. She would just have to make do with the gifts that had already been purchased. There were more than enough gifts under the tree: over 10 packages proudly declared her name, including one lavish gift that was well over $100, plus more gifts she had already received from extended family. This thought placated my guilt, quieting it for the next week as she played with all her new gadgets. 

My family’s quiet did not last for long. I will forever remember the morning of January 1 as the worst day in my existence. My sweet girl decided to let us sleep in, recovering from our long New Year’s Eve the night before. She changed, walked out our front door, and took the 3 block trek to her favorite store, confident she knew the walk from the times she had gone with her aunt. She was almost there, yet thwarted by a motorcycle that was unbothered to stop at a red light and fled the scene after taking our baby’s life.

*******

I walked to the corner wall where the trash bag lay, letting my back thump against the wall and releasing control of my legs, sliding down to the floor with a hard plop, landing just next to it. I lay my head gingerly on the trash bag, unable to open it and place everything back in its rightful area. Instead, I let odd ends and sharp corners dig into my cheek, the side of my arm, and my ribs; allowing the poking areas of my body to feel sharp discomfort was the only sensation tethering me to this physical world. If it wasn’t for that, I would have been swallowed whole by the ocean of my grief. My tears had already started a small pond, pooling at my lap as the fading light and growing shadows indicated the hours had passed. For the past few hours, my sobs had filtered out all other outside noises, the most effective type of white noise. Now, I vaguely registered the shutting sound of the front door and the heavy, familiar footsteps ascending the stairs. I couldn’t bear to face my husband right this second, so I remained on the floor, still pressed against my comforting trash bag. Maybe if I stayed completely still he wouldn’t notice me, leave me to my grief and protect himself against my oncoming rage. As he opened the pink door, my wishes were not granted. He immediately looked at my corner, eyes growing wide as he saw my disheveled body draped on the floor. Silently, he walked the small distance between us and sat down next to me, gingerly placing his head on my lap. 

“Do you want me to put it all back?” He asked, in a voice barely above a whisper. “I thought 10 years would have been enough”. 

“100…years…would…not…be…enough,” I managed to get out in between gasping sobs. 

He sat up, held my face in his hands, and gave me a slow peck on the forehead. He then stood, bent down, and scooped me up in his arms as easily as lifting the trash bag next to me. As quickly and silently as he walked in to the room, he took me out of the room and laid me on our bed. He carefully covered me with a blanket, then walked out. With a heavy heart and matching eyelids, I dozed off.

The next morning, as I stared at her complete room once more, I could breathe again. My memory diamonds were back in their places, mined into the walls of that pink room. My heart will never be completely repaired, or as shiny-happy as when she was here, but it would do for now.