I started crying today.  Not because I missed you but because I saw your truck.  It was in a video. All your people - the crew, they were in the truck.  They were driving it to the mountains. It was a party for them.  They are road tripping to film a video and doing it in your truck. 

As I watched it drive along the road on my computer screen, seeing their smiles and laughs, I thought of the smile that would have been on your face driving along with them.  You were missing from this party.  I thought how much you’d have loved this video and how you should be the one driving the truck. 

I held the idea of how much you’d have loved to be a part of it, to be the one creating, filming, driving and camping.  Doing your thing.  As I watched all these people drive your truck, I thought about what that truck meant to you. 

It was the first fun thing you bought, and you’re not the one having the fun in it.  I thought of what you did to get that truck, how long you waited, how hard you worked for it, how excited you were the day you bought it. 

Since you’ve been gone, I’ve kept the truck for a lot of good reasons and none of them have to do with remembering you.  It’s a business expense, a tax write off, and a video prop.  It’s now just a thing we use, but it was yours first. Now when I see it, I think, there’s your truck sweetie.  It’s not you, it’s just that thing, but it’s so you. 

Today I walked through the garage with the boxes still being unpacked as our need for something arises.  I was looking for a drill, your drill.  I couldn’t find it but I saw many of your other things.  I saw your moped.  It’s yellow and black with some silver, your colors.  

I keep looking for your drill, then I see your trailer.  The one that hitches to the truck.  You made it for the paraglider.  The glider you died flying.  That trailer would carry the paraglider everywhere with you, so you could fly from anywhere.  You customized it to perfection with all the parts that would make the transport so convenient.  You thought of everything.  

I remember how excited you were to show me your invention, the innovation you’d created from a little trailer you modified to make perfect for your toys.  I look at it now.  It sits there.  I have no use for it.  I won’t use a trailer for anything, well maybe if I take the boys camping. I could use it for luggage.  For now, it just sits there, dusty too.  

I keep looking for your drill. There is a box on the trailer, it holds all your extra parachutes for your paraglider. They are just the way you left them, but now a film of dust covers the bags, showing that no one has opened them since you packed them.

There are your kites in there too.  The ones you got just before you did paragliding training because you wanted to practice how to maneuver a kite in the wind.  You got so excited about kites and bought a whole bunch of them.  I should get those out and fly them with the kids. Yeah, I’ll have to do that.  

I kept looking for your drill.  I opened up the cupboard in the workbench you put together.  The workbench was a project you completed just a few weeks before you died.  I ordered it from Costco and you put it together. It looked nice.  You put your vice on it and customized it as you do with all the things you love.  

I couldn’t leave this one behind at your house, no I wanted to move it to this house, the only one I’ve lived in without you.  It would have been easier to leave it at your house all put together and right where you left it. I wanted it because your hands put it together, every screw and handle and door and drawer your hands touched.  You did it, so I wanted it for that reason.  I’ll organize it this summer.  I’ll make it look like you had it.  

I kept looking for your drill. I still can’t find it so I go downstairs, maybe it’s in the storage room.  More of your stuff is there.  I go to the corner where I keep all your stuff to look for it.  I see your socks.  I saved those.  A lot of them are still brand new.  I kept buying you socks and you kept wearing the same 5 pairs, so I kept thinking you needed new socks.  When I saw your sock drawer,  I laughed to see it was full of brand new socks.  

I saved those brand new socks.  Boys always need socks, so I figured the boys could use them when they are the right size. So the socks, they just sit there waiting for little feet to grow into them.  I keep looking for your drill.  Just above those socks I see your helmet.  The one you were wearing when they found you.  

Below the helmet is your camera gear, your favorite suitcase, a drone, all the walkie talkies you bought and your computer case.  All the things you’d have handy for work trips or hobby time. The things of Grant that I don’t really know what to do with.  They are all your things, sitting in my house.  Waiting.  Reminding.  Those are the things, your things. 

I didn’t find the drill, but I looked through all your stuff.  Each item I still have has a story of you associated with it. Each one carries memories. I’m reminded of each one as I touched those things while looking for your drill. 

When I see your things, it reminds me that when I go, all my things will be here too.  My things will be here for someone else to see with their own stories about me.  So I ask myself, what am I doing?  What am I doing with all this stuff, his stuff, are the memories for me it’s use now? and even more importantly, what am I doing with my stuff?  When I go, it doesn’t come with me. 

Someone else will play with the good stuff, cling to the sentimental stuff, use the consumable stuff and throw out everything else that doesn't have a use for them, even if it had a use for me.  When we die, we leave it all behind, you did Grant and all your stuff says something about you and who you were.  I wonder what I am saying about me?