There's a hole from my bucket
A bucket is just a bucket. Unless it has sentimental value. The only reason the bucket I own has sentimental value is because it belonged to my sister. It's just a plain, green, plastic bucket. But it was hers.

I have a lot of my sister's things now. In fact, in the four years since her death, I've cleaned out a lot of my own things in the process of moving a few times. But I always keep the things I have that are hers. I'm still just not ready to part with any of it, yet. Even just the bucket.

My parents and I had a difficult time going through my sister's stuff after her death. We packed up her apartment and brought it all home, where it sat in a room for several weeks before we could find the strength to sort through it all. The room began to smell like whatever fragrance had been in her apartment, and I would have been happy to leave it that way. It was like we'd packed up the essence and fragrance of her apartment, and now we had a room full of her stuff at home, still smelling as if she'd just been there.

I'd walk into the room from time to time, just to stand and look and smell. I almost felt like I shouldn't touch anything, because it wasn't mine. It was her stuff. Her private stuff. I wanted her stuff to keep her touch and scent as long as possible. It's a weird feeling to go through someone's belongings, knowing she'd left that last day having no idea someone would soon be looking through everything she owned. There really is no such thing as privacy. Once you're gone, it's a free-for-all with everything that was who you were. Bank accounts, old letters, dirty laundry, moldy food in the fridge, underwear drawer, and even diaries and journals. Everything was just as she'd left it when we had to pack it up, and it almost felt wrong to open drawers and cabinets and closets to move and touch things she didn't intend for anyone else to ever touch, move, or read. It was so strange to have to go through each and every thing to decide what to do with it, especially since she had just been there with all of it, days before. It wasn't ours to decide. But suddenly, it was. And it was precious. I learned more about her in the days and weeks following her death when we had the opportunity to be among her things, than I had in the 21 years I knew her. I wish that hadn't been the case, but I treasure it.

Eventually we began the process of going through everything in the room where we'd placed her stuff. My parents kept some things. I kept some things. We gave away a lot of things that we knew we just didn't need to keep or would never use. That was hard. But we decided together on everything, so that we felt like we were doing the right thing with each item, and there would be no regrets later after things were gone. But even today, my parents and I are both holding on to things we will eventually give away. We have no use for them and didn't from the beginning, but it just hasn't been the right time to let it go, yet.

I ended up with some of her furniture, lots of little things, and most of her clothes. We were about the same size, and I felt very lucky to be able to have her clothes. They described a lot about her personality. I still wear most of the clothes of hers that I have, even having them for the past four years. I mixed them into my wardrobe. Many of my own clothes have come and gone as I wear them out or get sick of them. But hers I never get sick of, and they never seem to wear out. My favorite pair of jeans were hers. I wear them all the time. I hope I can fit in them forever.

Some of her things I use so often that I almost forget they were hers. Some things I never use, but they are just in my apartment, some out where I can see them, some packed away for safe keeping. Now that I'm packing again to move one more time, I have to touch and handle all of these things again. It makes for a very slow packing process. It's emotional to go through everything again, remembering why I have it. While I'm glad to have it and to remember the significance of each thing and the memories surrounding it, I'm also sad to have it because I'd rather she still have it.

The funny thing is that my sister would probably get a big kick out of the things I've kept. She was always giving her stuff away to people who needed it more. I can remember packing up her apartment, looking for things that I knew she had because I'd seen her with it recently, but not finding it because she'd likely given it to someone else who asked for it or needed it. She would probably find it pretty funny that I still have her bath towels, or her beat up old sneakers that were falling apart. Or her green bucket. She'd likely not have that stuff anymore. It would have long since been given away or thrown away if she were still here.

I'm really careful and very protective of her things. I don't want to lose her stuff, or for anything to get broken. But lately I've tried to let go just a bit more, because I know she would want that for me. And because in an odd way, it helps me feel closer to her to be more free with the things that were hers. I got brave and donated the use of her bucket to the carwash my church had a few months ago. Actually, I didn't think a whole lot of it. We needed a bucket, and I happened to have one. It just so happened to belong to my sister. But she would enjoy that her bucket was being used for a good cause. And the thought never entered my mind that the bucket would leave my possession. Take the bucket, use the bucket, return with the bucket.

The bucket has been missing ever since the carwash. It's taken awhile to track it down. I am fully confident that it is in the church building somewhere, because that's where I've been told it was placed. I just haven't been able to locate it, yet. I know it's just a matter of following the trail until I soon find the bucket again. It's there somewhere. But in the process of packing to move and refreshing the feelings I have of missing my sister as I again pack away things that once belonged to her, I've felt an urgency to find the bucket and get it home again. I'm sure the people involved in the trail of the missing bucket think I'm nuts because I keep asking about the bucket, looking everywhere for it. But it's a sentimental bucket.

I know it's just a bucket. She probably bought it at Wal-Mart for about a dollar and used it to clean. I'm sure it had no emotional or otherwise significant value to her at all. But to me, it was her bucket. It's a small piece of who she was, and something I can still hold onto since I can't hold onto her anymore.

And I'm just not ready to deal with the hole from the bucket quite yet.

C.T.