When my dad passed away thirty-eight days ago, I never anticipated just how difficult it would be to let him go, to say goodbye. One day last week, I was very upset about his passing. I came across three Tootsie Rolls he gave me a few months back. When I saw them, I remembered the interaction exactly. It played in my mind like a movie.
My dad handed me the Tootsie Rolls with a look of gentleness and love in his eyes, as if to say, "I know you like candy. I want you be happy. Take this. I love you."Days, weeks, even months passed, and I forgot all about those Tootsie Rolls. All the while, I carried them with me nearly everyday to school or work. About 6 weeks ago, I found them in my bag and remembered my dad gave them to me. I still didn't want to eat them, but at the same time I didn't want to give them away or throw them away. So I placed them on my bedside table where they got covered over with random clutter that took precedence over candy.
"No thank you, Daddy. I don't want them, " I said. What I really meant is I don't like them, but I didn't want to reject his sincere offering in such a way.
"Take them for later. You might want them then." And I took them and put them in my school bag.
Last week, I cleaned up most of the clutter and found the candy. I was having a particularly difficult time the day I found them. I picked them up and held them as if they were a prize, something sacred, something to be cherished. These were one of the last "gifts" he had given me. Unsure what to do with them, I did what I thought he would want me to do. I ate them. And I cried.
Tootsie Rolls are still not a candy I really enjoy, but for those few minutes last week, I liked Tootsie Rolls. I loved them because they represented, tangibly, a memory of my dad.
Tonight, I cleared off the remaining clutter from my bedside table. For whatever reason I never threw away the wrappers from the Tootsie Rolls. When I saw them, I picked them up and held them, again, as if thy were a prize or something sacred to be cherished. I took them to the kitchen to throw away, but I couldn't discard them.
I stood there struggling, internally, with throwing them away. In my mind, they are trash and belong in the garbage. But in my heart, I couldn't part with them. I gently unfolded them, smoothed them out and placed them one on top of the other. I stared at them, softly stroking them and remembering the day he gave me them. I couldn't possibly throw them away. Even though it may seem silly to keep them because they are nothing more than trash to anyone else, they are far more than that to me. They are a memory I can physically touch. My dad touched though very same wrappers.
I never understood, until now, why people save some of the things they do. I have often urged my mother to throw things away, things I don't think she needs, things that belonged to her mother that seem like junk to me. When I found my heart longing to keep the candy wrappers, my mind automatically flashed back to those times when I have tried to get rid of Mom's "junk." Now, I see it is sometimes the little things, the seemingly insignificant things that belonged to someone we loved so dearly that end up meaning so much to us.
My dad also gave me a Bible, a New Testament with Psalms before he died. Although I will always cherish it, for reasons unknown to me, it doesn't mean quite as much to me as these Tootsie Roll wrappers.
