You often hear widows speak about the emotional struggle of sorting through their late husband’s belongings. It seems that the smells and fabrics evoke such strong memories of their lost loved ones. Curiously, I didn’t have that experience. Just days after you left us, I stepped into your closet, searching for a piece of you, but you were absent.
I found myself puzzled. Armed with a huge box of tissues, I expected an overwhelming wave of memories. But then it hit me: you lacked a “signature scent.” Unlike my father, who had a distinct cologne, you were devoid of a recognizable fragrance or even a lingering soap smell.
My sense of smell may have been dulled after years of changing diapers, yet I wished for at least a hint of your soap to fill the emotional void I was experiencing. I stood there taking deep breaths, as if I were in a yoga class, channeling the breathing techniques you always mocked me for. There’s no epidural for grief, but those calming breaths turned out to be surprisingly helpful.
Your wardrobe mostly consisted of black mock turtlenecks and button-down shirts, affectionately dubbed “The Jim Uniform” by your young colleagues. Not long ago, you asked me if I thought you had style. I chuckled to myself but assured you that your rugged masculinity eclipsed any fashion concerns. In essence, you were so incredibly attractive that no one paid attention to your clothing choices.
So, when the moment came, I mustered my courage, walked into your closet, and packed up your clothes. Remember how our little ones would exclaim, “I did it all by myself!”? I knew you wouldn’t want anyone else handling your things. I kept a few items for our boys and, as you would say, “took care of business.”
Our recent Spring Break trip to Louisiana was an entirely different experience. The second I stepped off the plane in New Orleans, it felt like you were right there with me. The atmosphere was saturated with your essence.
Driving over the Bonne Carre Spillway into Baton Rouge, the rushing water reminded me of your focused determination. The entire place was a remarkable blend of urgency and laid-back charm—much like you.
The week was a sensory whirlwind—music, moss-draped trees, rich food, and the vibrant culture. The streets near LSU and your parents’ neighborhood were steeped in memories of the time we thought we had forever. We spent countless hours cruising around in your car, revisiting our past, not realizing we were creating a lifetime of memories.
I was just 15 when my family moved from Dallas to Louisiana, sulking as we crossed the state line, unaware of the love that awaited me. I met you two years later, and although we left Louisiana the day we married and never officially lived there again, it remained your home—and by your unwavering devotion, mine too.
On our final day, I made sure our son experienced the Quarter, indulging in oysters and gumbo. It cost me a hefty $150 in Uber fees, but it was worth it. We walked to the levee to honor “Old Man River.” While I attempted to share the history of this remarkable port city, I quickly realized that a 17-year-old boy’s interest in Louisiana’s significant role in trade wasn’t particularly captivating. Perhaps I’ll revisit that lesson in 20 years.
Three hours and another $75 Uber ride later, we found ourselves waiting for our flight at New Orleans International Airport. Though they call it “The Big Easy,” our trip was a bittersweet journey—healing, yet challenging. I could have used that box of tissues from your closet, but fortunately, my breathing techniques kept me grounded. You may not have had a distinct scent, but you certainly had a “signature place,” and navigating it wasn’t easy.
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In summary, the journey of loss and remembrance is complex and full of contradictions. As I navigate life without you, I cherish the memories that linger and the places that feel like home.